MARTYRED 
FOOL 


(^  oCj-.-'t.-^^  ^/^^^.'"t^Jl^^^^-^*^  Qi^-^-^Cz,^ 


7 


/9^Y^-. 


THE   MARTYRED   FOOL 


H  novel 


BY 


DAVID  CHRISTIE  MURRAY 

ADTHOR   OF        V 

"aunt  Rachel"  "Joseph's  coat"  "by  the  gate  of  the  sea' 
"time's  revenges"  "in  dikest  peril"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

]  895 


Copyriglit,  1894,  by  Harpkr  k  Brothers. 


All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS 


Book  Fihst 

PAGE 

the  sowtng  of  the  seed  * ,    .    .    .    .        1 

Book  Second 
the  reaping  of  the  harvest  ...         .         117 


THE  MARTYRED  FOOL 


:SBoo\{  first 

THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED 


CHAPTER  I 

Just  fourteen  years  ago,  in  the  July,  that  is  to  say,  of  the 
year  1879,  a  very  small  boy  sat  shivering  on  the  bank  of  a 
swift-flowing,  turbid  stream,  with  his  back  to  the  trunk  of 
a  big  tree,  and  his  hands  rammed  deep  into  the  pockets  of 
his  ragged  trousers.  If  the  small  boy  had  peeped  round 
the  big  tree  almost  due  north-east,  he  might  have  seen  very 
dimly  and  very  far  away  the  last  spur  of  the  Australian 
Alps.  If  he  had  followed  the  turbid  stream  five  miles,  he 
might  have  stood  on  the  shore  of  the  South  Pacific  Ocean. 
Small  as  he  was  he  was  aware  of  both  of  these  facts  already, 
and  had  no  inclination  either  to  look  or  to  wander.  It 
was  early  July,  and  mid-winter.  He  was  bitterly  cold,  and 
still  more  bitterly  hungry,  and  his  young  heart  w^as  filled 
with  loathing  of  the  world,  and  with  anger  at  the  inequali- 
ties of  fortune.  Across  the  swift-flowing  waters  of  the 
creek,  only  four  or  five  hundred  yards  away,  stood  the 
prosperous  and  rising  settlement  of  Koollala,  embraced  all 
around  by  rising  tracts  of  eucalyptus  forest.  The  great, 
changeless  gums  wore  in  dead  winter  the  same  solemn  and 
sombre  livery  they  showed  in  spring,  in  summer,  and  in 
autumn,  and  without  in  the  least  knowing  wh}^,  the  small 
boy  felt  hurt  and  dispirited  in  the  face  of   this   fact  of 


nature.  Around  him  and  before  him  the  great  shapeless 
trunks  rustled  their  cerements  of  gray  bark,  and  their  leafy 
bouglis  sobbed  in  answer  to  the  uneven  wind.  The  river 
had  a  voice  of  mourning,  and  the  clouds  that  scurried  over 
the  tree-tops  threatened  rain. 

The  prosperous  and  rising  settlement  of  Koollala,  so  far 
as  it  was  visible  from  the  root  of  the  big  gum-tree  on 
which  the  small  boy  sat,  consisted  of  ten  or  a  dozen  houses 
built  of  weatherboard,  and  set  on  stilts,  to  save  them  from 
the  rain  which  occasionally  rushed  down  from  the  sur- 
rounding heights,  or  the  waters  which  occasionally  tres- 
passed from  the  creek  below.  The  rudely  split  planks  of 
which  these  scattered  tenements  were  built  had  once  been 
white,  but  were  now  purple  gray,  rusty  gray,  green  gray, 
from  exposure  to  all  sorts  of  weather.  Everywhere  among 
the  scattered  houses  were  evidences  of  a  rough  cultivation, 
but  in  all  the  unfenced  fields  great  charred  stems  of  trees 
stood  up  like  monuments  of  ruin,  and  the  prosperous  and 
rising  settlement  looked  at  least  as  much  like  a  graveyard 
as  a  village.  The  land  had  been  cleared  to  the  water's 
edge,  but  behind  the  knoll  on  which  the  small  boy  sat, 
sinking  in  sombre  bowl  after  sombre  bowl  of  foliage, 
lay  the  unbroken  primeval  forest.  The  waters  of  the 
creek  ran  five  or  six  hundred  feet  higher  than  the  land  in 
their  immediate  neighborhood,  but  many  a  thousand  j'cars 
ago  they  had  been  caught  in  a  cleft  of  granite,  and  unable 
to  break  tlirough  that  strong  boundar}^,  still  held  their  first 
course  toward  the  greater  waters  of  the  ocean. 

What  with  cold  and  what  with  hunger,  what  witli  a 
certain  eerie  sense  of  loneliness  and  a  certain  bitter 
chafing  against  the  world  at  large,  the  small  bo}^  gritted 
liis  teeth  and  had  to  close  his  eyelids  very  tight  and 
hard  to  prevent  the  flow  of  tears.  People  are  apt  to 
think  little  of  the  sentimental  woes  of  children,  but 
Evan  Rhys,  aetat.  seven,  was  as  full  of  despair  and  rage 


against  the  world  as  he  could  well  have  been  if  he  had 
been  seven  and  twenty.  He  clenched  his  red  fists  tightly 
in  his  ragged  pockets,  set  his  teeth  hard,  and  squeezed  his 
eyelids  as  closely  as  they  would  go,  and  the  whole  declara- 
tion of  the  infant  soul  was  in  favor  of  no  surrender.  As 
he  sat  thus,  a  boy  on  a  pony  approached  the  creek  from  the 
civilized  side,  and  after  staring  about  him  a  while,  sighted 
an  old  and  stubborn  antagonist. 

"  Halloa,  you  there  ! "  he  shouted  in  an  imperious  treble. 

The  small  boy  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant. 

«  Halloa,  you  !  " 

"  How  did  you  get  over  there  ?  "  said  the  boy  on  the 
pony. 

"  Find  out !  "  said  Evan  Rhys. 

The  boy  on  the  pony  was  very  nattily  dressed,  and  the 
boy  on  the  far  side  of  the  creek  was  in  rags.  They  were 
of  the  same  age  within  a  month  or  two,  and  the  dullest 
observer  of  their  encounter  could  have  seen  an  offensive 
patronage  on  the  one  side,  and  an  angry  repudiation  of  it 
on  the  other. 

"Do  you  hear  what  I  am  saying?"  asked  the  boy  on 
the  pony.     "  I  asked  you  how  you  got  there." 

"Do  you  hear  what  Vm  saying?"  the  enemy  answered. 
"  I  told  you  to  find  out.     You  dassn't  come,  any  way  !  " 

"  Daren't  I  ?  "  said  the  boy  on  the  pony.  "  I  dare  do 
anything  you  dare  do.     A  lout  can  never  beat  a  gentleman." 

"  Can't  he  ?  "  said  young  Evan  Rhys,  with  a  grimness 
beyond  his  years.     "  You  come  across  and  see." 

"  Come  across  yourself,"  said  the  trim  young  Valentine, 
disdainful  of  the  woodland  Orson  before  him.  "  We'll 
jolly  soon  see  who's  master  !  " 

"  All  right !  "  said  Evan  Rliys,  accepting  the  challenge 
with  alacrity.  "  You  go  round  the  bend  o'  the  crick. 
There's  a  big  gum  fell  over  there.  You  climb  over  that 
crick,  only  you  dassn't !  " 


"  Oh,  yes,  I  dure  !  "  said  the  otlier  boy  coolly,  dismounting 
from  his  pony  as  he  spoke. 

"  Oh,  no,  yon  dassn't  !  "  responded  the  woodland  chal- 
lenger. 

Tlie  boy  opposite  hitched  his  pony  to  a  shrub  near  at 
hand  and  walked  alongside  the  creek.  The  enemy  kept 
pace  with  hira  on  the  other  side.  Thirty  or  forty  j'ards 
up  stream  the  river  swerved  suddenl}'^,  and  a  little  beyond 
the  turning  it  was  seen  that  a  giant  gum,  some  thirty  feet 
in  girth,  had  fallen  from  its  rain-soaked  bed,  and  now  lay 
prone  across  the  raging  waters,  forming  a  rude  natural 
bridge.  The  enormous  breadth  of  the  tree  made  it  impos- 
sible for  the  intending  intruder  to  climb  it  at  any  spot 
nearer  than  that  at  which  the  lower  branches,  vast  as  an 
English  elm,  stretched  out  on  either  side.  To  reach  the 
nearest  of  these,  he  had  to  turn  his  back  upon  his  enem}', 
who  took  unfair  advantage  of  that  circumstance,  and 
jeered  at  him. 

"A  gentleman  wouldn't  have  done  that,"  the  other 
shouted  across  the  broiling  water.  "  Don't  3'^ou  think  I'm 
afraid  of  you  !  I've  got  to  turn  my  back  to  get  at  you,  but 
I  shall  get  at  you  all  the  same." 

Evan  Rhys,  in  anticipation  of  battle,  took  ofp  his  ragged 
jacket,  turned  up  his  ragged  shirt-sleeves,  and  began  to 
beat  himself  about  the  chest  and  shoulders  with  both 
swinging  hands.  The  enemy  meantime  climbed  actively 
enough,  reached  the  great  flat  back  of  the  i)rostrate  trunk, 
ran  across  it,  and  climbed  down  by  the  wet  and  slippeiy 
roots  at  the  far  end,  growing  ycry  muddy  and  untidy  in 
the  process.  Arrived,  and  being  face  to  face  with  his 
enemy,  he,  too,  took  off  his  jacket,  and  rolled  up  his  shirt- 
sleeves. Then  the  juvenile  combatants  shook  hands  on  the 
young  gentleman's  invitation,  and  set  to  work. 

The  fortune  of  war  was  various,  and  now  on  the  slippery 
and  uneven  earth  one  was  down,  and  now  another.     On  the 


whole,  wlietlier  it  were  fortune,  pluck,  or  skill,  or  that  dis- 
dain of  pain  which  poverty  is  early  taught  to  feel,  the 
ragged  boy  began  to  get  a  good  deal  the  better  of  it  ;  but 
the  other's  pride  was  up  in  arms,  and  it  was  evident  that 
so  long  as  he  had  a  grain  of  fight  left  in  him  he  was  not 
likely  to  ask  for  quarter.  The  war  was  not  carried  out 
according  to  the  rules  of  art,  and  included  a  good  deal  of 
clinching.  Once  or  twice  the  combatants  fell  out  of  breath 
together,  and  glared,  exhausted,  at  each  other,  till  one  of 
them  said  "  time."  The  word  was  talismanic,  for  the 
failure  to  respond  to  it  would  have  been  regarded  as  a 
surrender,  and,  whenever  it  was  spoken  by  either,  the  other 
breathless  infant  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  the  strife  began 
anew.  At  length,  in  one  of  the  unscientific  clinches  which 
marred  the  display  from  an  artistic  point  of  view,  the 
ragged  boy  fell  so  heavily  upon  the  young  gentleman  as 
to  drive  all  the  wind  out  of  his  bod}^,  and  rising,  beheld 
him  comatose,  or  thereabouts. 

"  Had  enough  ?  "  asked  Evan  Rhys. 

The  gentleman  warrior  gasped  like  a  fish  and  rolled  his 
eyes,  but  was  in  no  condition  for  verbal  answer. 

"  Say  you've  had  enough  !  "  said  the  conqueror,  advanc- 
ing vengefully. 

The  other  rolled  over,  face  downward,  on  the  ground, 
and  the  rustic  touched  him  contemptuously  with  the  toe  of 
his  ragged  boot. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  you've  been  kicked,  and  you  lie 
down  to  it.  If  you'll  do  that,  you'll  do  anything.  Don't 
you  come  a-nigh  me  any  more,  that's  all." 

The  defeated  combatant  was  at  too  great  a  disadvan- 
tage. He  was  unable  to  make  answer,  and  when  at  last  he 
came  to  himself  he  saw  his  late  opponent  perched  high  in 
the  muddy  roots  of  the  fallen  eucalypt  above  him,  with 
the  thumb  of  derision  planted  at  the  tip  of  a  muddy  and 
bloodstained  nose. 


6 


"  Had  enough  ? "  said  Evan  Rhys  from  that  height  of 
vantage. 

The  young  gentleman  said  nothing,  but  rolled  down  his 
sleeves,  and  struggled  into  his  jacket.  He  stood  sullen 
and  downcast  for  a  full  minute,  hitching  his  feet  here  and 
there,  and  shrinking  from  an  encounter  with  the  victor's 
eye. 

"  Fair  play  up  there  ! "  he  said  at  last ;  "  no  shoving  when 
I'm  not  ready." 

By  way  of  sole  response  Evan  Rhys  arose  from  his  perch 
among  the  clotted  roots  and  slid  down  to  the  broad  trunk 
of  the  tree,  across  which  he  sauntered  witli  an  air  of  irri- 
tating indifference  to  the  other  side.  Thus  left  to  himself, 
the  vanquished  followed  in  his  footsteps,  and  mounting  his 
pony  rode  off  unmolested. 

Little  Evan  walked  into  the  village.  The  miry,  unmade 
road,  full  of  deep  cart-ruts,  and  pitted  everywhere  with 
the  tracks  of  sheep  and  cattle,  led  him  between  mournful 
clearings  in  which  the  scanty  stubble  of  the  last  harvest 
slowly  rotted.  Here  was  a  patch  of  black  bean-stalk,  and 
there  a  patch  of  scanty  rye-straw  ;  here  a  segment  on 
which  wheat  had  been  grown,  and  here  another  which  had 
been  sown  with  oats  or  barley  ;  all  easily  recognizable  to 
the  accustomed  eye.  None  of  the  crops  were  fenced, 
and  among  the  desolate  reminders  of  them  all  stood  the 
huge  charred  stumps,  some  of  them  still  retaining  their 
tortured  branches,  and  standing  in  such  weird  and  writheh 
attitudes  that  they  seemed  still  to  retain  the  memory  of 
the  torment  of  their  burning.  The  rain  began  to  pelt 
down  sharp  and  cold,  and  the  small  boy,  tucking  the  rag- 
ged collar  of  his  jacket  about  his  ears,  ran  for  the  furthest 
house.  Here  a  ladder  of  half  a  dozen  steps  led  to  the 
floor  of  a  rotten  veranda,  about  the  supports  of  which 
twined  a  (quantity  of  bare  and  dejected  creeper,  which  had 
doubtless  been  grown  there  to  give  pleasure   to  the  eye, 


but  now  played  its  part  in  adding  to  the  decrepit  and 
ruined  look  of  the  whole  building.  The  broken  windows 
had  been  inefficiently  pasted  over  with  old  rags  of  paper, 
which  now  fluttered  disconsolate  in  the  wet  wind.  The 
wail  of  an  ill-tempered  and  neglected  child  sounded  from 
the  outer  chamber  of  tlie  house.  A  litter  of  pigs,  in  a 
ruinous  lean-to  attached  to  tlie  building,  fought  and 
squealed.  There  had  once  been  an  attempt  made  at  the 
arrangement  of  a  garden  about  the  building,  but  this  had 
evidently  been  abandoned  for  some  seasons  past,  and  was 
now  in  a  state  of  ruin  and  disorder,  which  fitted  all  the  rest. 

An  unkempt,  ragged  woman  issued  from  the  house  at 
the  sound  of  the  boy's  footsteps. 

"Yew're  back  again,"  she  said,  in  a  strong  English 
west-country  accent,  and  then  a  moment  later,  "Yew've 
been  a-fighting  again,  our  Evan." 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  our  Evan  answered,  edging  away  a  little, 
and  raising  a  defensive  elbow. 

The  woman,  with  a  shrug  of  resigned  despair,  turned 
back  into  the  house,  and  ill-temperedly  hitched  out  from 
its  darkened  recesses  a  tin  bucket  of  potatoes.  She  made 
another  entry,  and  returned  with  a  tin  bowl  of  somewhat 
muddy  water  and  a  knife. 

"  Peel  them,"  she  said,  "  and  see  as  j^ew  don't  waste  'em 
like  ye  did  yesterday.     If  ye  do,  I'll  peel  yew." 

The  boy  arranged  the  materials  for  his  task  before  him, 
and  sat  down,  half-sheltered  from  the  rain,  upon  a  three- 
legged  stool. 

"Who  ha'  yew  been  a-fighting  with  this  time?"  his 
mother  asked,  with  a  querulous  tone  of  exasperation  in  her 
voice. 

"I've  give  that  young  Penthearn  a  hiding,"  Evan 
answered. 

"  Or  else  took  one  from  him,"  said  his  mother  ungra- 
ciously. 


"I'm  bad  enougli,"  the  boy  responded,  passing  his 
sleeve  gingerly  across  the  tip  of  his  damaged  nose,  "  but 
you  should  ha'  seen  him  !  lie  won't  come  a-cheekin'  me 
no  more." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  his  mother,  "  like  father,  like  son  !  There's 
no  dealin'  with  ayther  on  ye.  If  I'd  ha'  known  what  I 
was  a-doin',  I'd  ha'  gone  a  long  way  afoie  I'd  ha'  married 
a  AVelshman.  If  I'd  ha'  known  what  he  was  a-doin'  when 
he  asked  me  to  come  out  to  Australia,  I'd  ha'  seen  him 
further  first,  and  then  I  woiildn't.  Tile  and  mile  from 
marnin'  till  night,  and  no  rest  ever,  and  nothin'  to  be  got 
out  of  it."  A  sudden  squeal  from  the  pigsty  arrested  her 
attention.  "  We'll  have  to  kill  'em  to  keep  'em  from 
starvin',  though  where  the  salt's  to  come  from  to  cure  'em, 
I  don't  know.  They're  askin'  two  shillings  a  peck  for  it, 
and  there  ain't  sixpence  in  the  house,  nor  sixpence-worth, 
so  far  as  I  know.  Do  j'ou  see  how  you're  a-wastin'  them 
potatoes,  our  Evan  ?  My  life  here  ain't  nothin'  but  one 
continual  grind.  Nothin'  goes  right,  and  nobody  takes 
a  minute's  notice  o'  me." 

Possibly  the  small  boy  was  used  to  this  dejected  mood, 
and  knew  aforetime  the  voice  of  these  reproaches.  lie 
worked  on  at  least  like  a  stoic,  looking  neither  to  right  nor 
left,  and  paying  no  more  apparent  heed  to  his  mother  than 
he  did  to  the  equal  meaning  of  the  voices  of  the  wind  and 
rain.  The  Avoman  curled  her  hands  in  her  untidy  apron  as 
some  refusre  asrainst  the  biting  ccld,  and  shrank  back  half 
within  the  door-way. 

"  There's  yew,"  she  said,  evidently  exasperated  by  the 
child's  silence,  *'a-fighting  every  day  and  all  (lay  with  all 
and  sundry,  and  there's  your  father  away  all  day  after 
politics.  I  never  see  such  a  family  in  all  my  born  days. 
What's  it  matter  to  him  who's  M.  L.  A.  for  the  districk  ? 
'Spose  he  does  get  Watson  in?  lie  saj^s  he  will,  but  I 
don't  believe  he's  got  no  more  influence  than  you  liave. 


Will  that  mend  these  'ere  dratted  winders,  or  find  the 
wash  to  feed  thickyer  crowd  o'  pigs  ?  Oh,  I'm  sick  o'  you 
and  him  and  everythin'  and  everybody.  If  I  wasn't  a 
Christian  woman  Avith  a  soul  to  save,  I'd  go  this  minute 
and  drown  myself  in  that  there  crick,  I  'ouldn't  live 
another  hour,  I  'ouldn't !  " 

The  youthful  Evan,  pausing  only  now  and  then  to 
caress  his  injured  nose  with  the  palm  of  a  dirt-grimed  hand, 
peeled  his  potatoes,  and  dropped  them  one  by  one  into  the 
pannikin  of  dirty  watei",  comforting  himself  as  he  did 
so  with  some  distant  view  of  an  insufficient  meal.  His 
mother  went  indoors,  and  snatching  ujj  the  crying  baby, 
spanked  him  with  sudden  ardor,  and  set  him  to  nature's 
fount.  She  came  back  again  with  the  child  in  a  slatternly 
bundle  at  her  breast,  and  nagged  for  half  an  hour.  By 
the  end  of  that  time  the  potatoes  were  all  peeled,  and 
Evan  was  despatched  to  the  creek  for  more  water.  As  he 
came  back  staggering  under  the  weight  of  the  bucket,  a 
man  stepped  on  to  the  veranda  and  took  his  seat  upon  a 
three-legged  stool.  He  was  a  tall,  gaunt  fellow,  Avith  a 
pale  olive  complexion,  lank  black  hair,  clear-cut  and  hand- 
some features,  and  eyes  which  looked  the  very  natural 
home  of  a  permanent  discontent.  He  was  dressed  in  a  suit 
of  patched  moleskin,  which  gleamed  with  moisture,  and  as 
he  took  his  seat  he  struck  his  streaming  wide-awake  angrily 
against  his  leg,  and  distributed  a  shower  about  the  veranda. 

"  The  people  about  here,"  he  said,  with  a  marked  Welsh 
accent,  "  haf  no  sense  whatever.  They  haf  no  character 
whatever.  They  see  that  eferj^-poty  is  going  to  the  tefil, 
and  they  let  efery-poty  go." 

"  I  wish  I'd  never  seen  the  country,"  said  the  woman, 
sulkily  nursing  her  cliild,  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  door- 
way. 

"  Inteet,"  her  husband  answered,  "  I  tare  say  the  country 
returns  the  compliment." 


10 


Young  Evan  came  staggering  to  the  steps  of  the  brief 
ladder,  and  liis  fatlier,  risijig  and  stooping,  took  from  liim 
with  a  strong  hand  the  bucket  he  carried.  Tliis,  by  a 
series  of  small  misadventures  on  the  wa}'^,  had  been  half 
emptied,  and  Iieavy  as  it  was  in  the  child's  hands,  the  man 
lifted  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  feather. 

The  man  plunged  both  hands  amongst  the  potatoes  in 
the  pannikin,  and  began  to  wash  them  in  the  fresher  water 
brought  from  the  creek. 

"Young  Efan  Rhys,"  he  said  to  his  son  meanwhile,  "  I 
want  3'ou  to  rememper  this.  You'll  nefer  get  any  goot 
out  of  the  folks  who  call  themselves  chentleiieople.  They 
CO  for  their  own  interests,  and  they  co  for  nothing  else, 
and  nefer  will.  The  poor  man's  hant  is  akainst  tliem  from 
the  pekinning,  and  will  be  till  the  endt.  Nefer  forget 
that."  He  rose  suddenly  from  the  three-legged  stool,  and 
bending  down  toward  the  boy  put  a  forefinger  under  his 
chin,  and  by  a  series  of  little  jerks  edged  his  face  upward. 
"  You've  been  fighting." 

"  Well,"  said  young  Evan,  with  a  defiance  which  seemed 
to  be  a  part  of  the  family  attitude,  "  I'd  got  to.  I  wasn't 
going  to  let  young  Penthearn  cheek  me  and  not  cheek  him 
back  again." 

"  Was  he  impertinent  ?  "  asked  the  father. 

"  He  said  'halloa'  to  me,"  Evan  answered,  "and  I  said 
'halloa'  to  him." 

"  Quite  right  too,"  said  Papa  Rhys. 

"Tlien  he  said  he'd  come  across  and  give  me  abiding. 
I  told  him  he  dassn't,  and  he  did,  and  I  gave  him  one." 

"  Quite  right  too,"  said  Papa  Rhys.  "  If  efer  you  see  a 
chance  to  hit  a  chentleman,  hit  him.  You  can't  co  wrong, 
my  boy — you  can't  co  wrong," 

So  saying,  the  gaunt  man  patted  his  son  upon  the  head 
approvingly  ;  then,  lialf  rising,  he  passed  the  tliumb  and 
fingers  of  each  hand  strenuously  from  thigh  to  knee  of  his 


11 


moleskin  trousers,  squeezing  out  the  moisture  from  them 
in  a  thin,  discolored  stream,  and  taking  up  the  bucket  full 
of  potatoes,  walked  indoors.  Evan,  a  little  comforted  by 
the  paternal  approval,  fingered  his  damaged  nose  Avith  an 
inward  sense  of  triumph. 

Out  of  the  one  track  in  the  bush  which  led  past  the 
station  of  Merioneth  to  the  great  district  town,  twenty 
miles  away,  came  a  road-worn  figure  carrying  an  exagger- 
ated looking  kind  of  knapsack.  The  bearer  of  the  knap- 
sack slipped  on  the  rain-soaked,  clayey  soil,  and  narrowly 
escaped  a  fall.  Then  he  came  zigzagging  from  side  to 
side,  hidden  to  the  midriff  by  an  intervening  hillock.  The 
hillock  surmounted,  he  came  skating  down  the  clay  coun- 
terside,  and  then,  a  little  more  at  ease,  butting  at  the  wind 
and  rain  with  crouching  head  and  shoulders,  approached 
the  house. 

"  We  don't  want  no  tramps  here  !  "  said  Mrs.  Rhys, 
who  still  stood  nursing  her  baby  half  in  and  half  out  of 
the  dooi'-way. 

"  Who  says  not  ?  "  her  husband  demanded  from  inside. 

The  new-comer  reached  the  veranda  and  paused,  hat  in 
hand,  his  hair  tumbled  by  the  streaming  rain  and  roaring 
wind. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Rhj^s. 

The  man's  face  was  foreign,  and  when  he  spoke  it  was  in 
a  foreign  tongue.  Evan  Rhys  the  elder  emerged  from  the 
door-way  and  bade  him  enter. 

"  We're  poor  folks  here,"  he  said,  "and  haf  little  to  gif 
to  anypoty,  but  you're  welcome  to  share  what  there  iss." 

Whether  the  man  took  in  the  words  seemed  doubtful, 
but  the  master  of  the  house  made  him  a  gesture  which  he 
understood.  He  mounted  the  ladder  with  an  air  of  toil, 
and  releasing  a  strap  on  his  right  shoulder,  laid  his  burden 
to  the  ground,  and  smiled. 


CHAPTER   II 

The  smiling  stranger  read  no  welcome  in  the  eye  of 
Mrs.  Rhys,  Avho  scowled  at  him  with  an  open  hostility  and 
contempt,  and  turning  her  back  upon  him  walked  deliber- 
ately indoors.  The  new-comer's  face  fell,  and  be  looked  at 
Evan  Rhj^s  the  elder  with  a  childlike  appeal  and  projjitia- 
tion  in  his  face. 

"It's  all  right,  Johnny,"  said  Rhys,  laying  a  friendly 
band  upon  his  shoulder.  "  Nefer  jon  mind  the  missus. 
Sit  down  and  rest.  You  look  as  if  3'ou'd  travelled  a  long 
way  whatefer." 

He  pushed  the  three-legged  stool  toward  the  stranger 
with  his  foot,  and  motioned  him  to  be  seated. 

The  man  drew  back  with  bent  head,  and  hands  out- 
stretched in  polite  protest,  and  spoke  a  word  or  two  which 
conveyed  nothing  to  the  minds  of  his  hearers.  Rhys  took 
him  gently  by  the  shoulders,  and  the  man,  obeying  the 
impulse  thus  given  him,  sat  down,  and  smiled  once  more. 
He  was  apparently  about  fifty  years  of  age,  short  in  stature 
and  sturdily  built.  His  long  iron-gray  hair,  parted  in  the 
centre,  fell  almost  to  his  shoulders  without  a  symptom  of 
a  curl,  until  it  curved  inward  at  the  ends.  He  had  a 
remarkable  mass  of  forehead,  a  nose  of  extreme  brevity,  as 
broad  at  the  base  as  it  was  long,  thick  protrusive  lips,  half 
hidden  under  a  gray  mustache,  and  a  long  bifurcated 
beard.  He  needed  only  the  robe  and  head-dress  peculiar 
to  the  craft  to  have  stood  as  a  type  of  the  peasant  priest 
of  the  Greek  Church.  His  eyes  were  large,  soft,  and 
luminous,  and  they  and  the  forcliead  together  might  have 
belonged  to  a  saint   and   a   poet.     The    squat   nose   and 


13 


sensual  lips  were  Tartar  all  over.  The  physiognomy  was 
half  angelic,  half  animal. 

"  Look  here,  you  Efan,"  said  the  master  of  the  house  to 
the  small  boJ^  "  Put  that  sack  across  your  shoulders  and 
run  across  to  Frenchy.  If  he  iss  at  home,  ask  him  to  come 
ofer." 

The  boy  took  up  a  piece  of  old  sacking  from  the  floor, 
threw  it  about  his  head  and  slioulders,  and  was  gone.  The 
stranger  drew  from  his  pockets  a  pipe  of  well-blacked  clay, 
a  good-sized  hunch  of  tobacco,  and  a  formidable-looking 
clasp-knife.  He  began  to  shred  the  tobacco  and  to  fill  his 
pipe.  Rhys  involuntarily  put  a  hand  into  his  waistcoat 
pocket  and  drew  out  a  well-used  clay,  but  immediately 
returned  it,  Avitli  a  look  both  furtive  and  ashamed.  The 
new  arrival  noticed  the  gesture,  and  stretched  out  the 
tobacco  and  the  knife.  Rhys  protested  feebly,  but  the 
stranger  insisting,  he  accepted  the  offer,  and  having 
shredded  for  himself  a  very  modest  portion,  stood  rubbing 
it  between  his  horny  palms,  and  looking  out  at  the  slanting 
lines  of  rain,  which  came  down  more  and  more  bitterly. 

"  Fire  ?  "  enquired  the  stranger,  touching  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe  to  make  his  meaning  clear. 

"  All  right,  Johnny,"  Rhys  answered,  and  entering  the 
house  came  back  in  a  second  or  two  with  a  lighted  brand 
from  the  kitchen  fire. 

Each  man  lit  his  pipe,  and  for  a  while  smoked  in  silence. 
It  was  Rhys's  first  taste  of  tobacco  for  a  fortnight,  and  he 
sucked  at  his  pipe  with  animal  noises  of  satisfaction. 

"Dobro?"  said  the  stranger,  looking  up  at  him  and 
laughing.     Rhys  stared.     "  Good,  eh  ?  " 

"  You  may  well  say  that,"  the  AVelshman  answered. 
"  There  is  nothing  petter  than  a  pipe  of  topacco  when 
you're  hungry  for  it." 

"  Good  !  "  returned  the  stranger,  understanding  the  tone, 
if  not  the  words. 


14 


After  this  conversation  came  to  an  end,  but  in  about 
five  minutes'  time  Evan  the  younger  came  whooping 
througli  the  rain,  waving  his  hand  as  if  to  indicate  the 
prosperity  of  his  mission.  He  reached  the  veranda  out 
of  breath,  and  pantingly  announced  that  Frenchy  would  be 
there  directly.  In  effect  a  man  in  a  glistening  wet  water- 
proof was  seen  striding  hastily  along  the  main  street  as  the 
boy  made  his  announcement.  lie  waved  a  hand  to  Rhys, 
and  quickening  his  pace  to  a  run,  sprang  nimbly  to  the 
floor  of  the  veranda,  and  looked  about  him  with  a  bright 
laugh. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  he  said.  "  Your  boy  tells  me  you 
have  some  kind  of  foreign  creature  here  who  can  neither 
speak  nor  be  spoken  to.  If  he  can  speak  French  or  Ger- 
man I  am  his  man,  but  there  my  accomplishment  in  the 
way  of  languages  comes  to  an  end." 

The  foreign  accent  with  which  he  spoke  was  so  faintly 
marked,  that  it  would  be  unjust  to  attempt  to  indicate  it 
by  i^honetics.  The  French  rhythm  was  there,  but  the 
rhythm  only,  and  his  choice  of  words  was  made  without 
approach  at  hesitation.  The  speaker  himself  was  talJ  and 
blond,  animated  to  his  finger-tips,  and  as  obviously  a 
gentleman  as  Rhj-s  was  obviously  a  peasant.  He  turned 
on  the  stranger  with  a  bow  which  was  part  burlesque,  part 
politeness,  and  part  high  spirits,  and  addressed  him  in 
German.  Tlie  stranger  responded  in  the  flat,  unaccented 
French  which  is  so  commonly  noticeable  among  the  Rus- 
sians who  speak  that  language. 

"  A])a  !  "  cried  the  latest  comer,  "  nous  sommes  u  notre 
aise  ! " 

The  two  fell  into  animated  talk,  and  Rh3's  stared  in 
a  bewildered  fashion  from  one  to  the  other,  striving  in 
vain  to  separate  a  single  word  from  its  neighbors.  He 
had  spoken  Welsli  ami  English  indifferently  from  his 
earliest  childhood,  but  this  was  the  first  occasion  on  which 


15 


he  had  ever  heard  a  conversation  in  a  language  unknown 
to  him,  and  lie  had  a  half  suspicion  that  there  was  no 
meaning  in  it.  The  two  men  became  more  and  more 
eagerly  engaged,  and  in  a  little  while  each  was  so  ani- 
mated and  noisy  that  the  onlooker  foreboded  a  quarrel. 
To  his  utter  amazement,  and  not  a  little  to  his  disgust,  the 
scene  ended  by  an  embrace  in  which  each  kissed  the  other 
repeatedly  upon  either  cheek.  To  kiss  a  pretty  girl  had 
been  all  very  well  in  its  way  once  upon  a  time,  as  Evan 
Rhys  could  very  well  remember,  but  for  a  man  to  kiss 
a  man,  and  for  the  man  kissed  to  be  a  foreigner  into  the 
bargain,  was  nauseating  to  the  stomach.  The  exhibition 
was  no  sooner  over  than  the  latest  comer  turned  flashing 
on  Rhys,  with  both  hands  gesticulating  wildly  overhead, 
and  his  eyes  burning  like  coals  of  fire. 

"My  God!"  he  said,  "you  have  entertained  angels 
unawares,  my  good  friend  Evan  Rhys,  Who  do  you  think 
is  this  man  who  comes  here  in  the  guise  of  a  pedler,  Avho, 
hoping  to  make  a  morsel  of  bread,  tramj^s  twenty  miles  to 
this  rotten  village  on  a  day  like  this  ?  Who  is  it,  do  you 
think  ?  " 

«  Well,"  said  Rhys,  "  who  iss  it  ?  " 

"It  is  Boris  Petrovna  !  "  returned  the  other,  with  an  air 
as  regal  as  if  he  had  introduced  an  emperor. 

"I  nefer  heart  of  him,"  said  Rh^'s. 

"  This  is  the  man,"  the  other  declaimed,  shaking  the  fore- 
finger of  his  outstretched  right  hand  under  Rhys's  nose — 
"  this  is  the  man  who  for  fifteen  years  was  the  mainspring, 
the  brain,  the  right  hand  of  revolutionary  Russia.  This 
is  the  man  who,  ten  years  back,  in  the  prime  of  life  and 
the  fulness  of  his  kingly  intellect,  was  condemned  for 
life  to  the  mines  of  Siberia.  This  is  the  man  who 
executed  his  jailer,  who  travelled  on  foot  two  thousand 
miles  across  the  winter  desert,  Avho  was  recaptured,  who 
escaped   again,  and   with    whose    name    the   ears   of   all 


16 


lovers  of  liberty  tlirougliout  the  world  have  been  made  to 
tingle  !  " 

"  That  iss  all  right,"  said  Rh3's.  "  I  am  fery  glat  to  see 
you,  sir."  He  reached  out  a  hand  toward  the  pedler,  who 
accepted  it  warmly. 

"  Tell  him,"  said  Evan  Rhys,  his  olive  skin  flushing  with 
a  sudden  passion,  "  that  my  grandfather  wass  a  Chartist, 
and  wass  killed  py  the  tragoons  at  Peterloo.  He  wass  mj"^ 
grandfather  on  my  mother's  side." 

"  So  I  will,  old  Steadfast  !"  cried  the  Frenchman,  clap- 
ping him  boisterously  on  the  shoulder.  "  This  is  one  of 
us,"  he  continued  in  his  own  language.  "  This  man's 
grandfather  was  a  martyr  in  the  cause  of  liberty  in  Eng- 
land lifty  years  ago." 

Boris  Petrovna  rose  solemnly  from  the  three-legged 
stool  and  bowed. 

"  The  good  seed,"  he  said,  "  is  everywhere.  We  shall 
reap  the  harvest  in  due  time.  Here  at  least," — he  waved 
a  hand  about  him, — "  is  liberty." 

"Liberty!"  cried  the  Frenchman;  "there  is  here,  as 
elsewhere,  the  liberty  to  scramble  with  your  fellow- 
creatures  for  insufficient  bread.  The  poor  man  enjoys 
here,  as  elsewhere,  the  liberty  to  lie  down  and  allow  him- 
self to  be  trampled  on  by  the  rich.  Ask  our  friend  Evan 
Rhys,  here,  how  he  appreciates  his  liberty,  and  how  much 
more  free  he  finds  himself  in  the  new  Avorld  than  he  used 
to  be  in  the  old." 

"Ask  him,"  said  Petrovna,  "  and  tell  me  what  lie  says." 

The  Frenchman  took  up  his  parable  in  English. 

"  Mr.  Petrovna  says  that  there  is  liberty  liere.  I  have 
told  him  to  ask  your  opinion  on  that  question.  How 
much  more  liberty  have  you  here  than  you  enjoyed  in  the 
old  country  ?  " 

"  I  wass  nefer  so  worse  off  in  all  my  life,"  Rhys  responded 
gloomily.     "  It  iss  a  young  country,  and  there  iss  chances 


17 


in  it.  But,  look  you,  it  wass  Squire  Penthearn's  fatlier  in 
Merionethshire  who  stole  my  father's  little  pit  of  ground, 
and  it  iss  Squire  Penthearn  out  here  who  puys  up  all  the 
land  tliat  iss  worth  any  thing  whatefer.  We  are  in  a  new 
country,  but  the  laws  are  the  same.  There  is  efery  thing 
for  the  man  who  does  not  want  any  thing,  and  there  iss 
nothing  for  the  man  who  iss  in  need  of  efery  thing." 

The  Frenchman  translated  this  speech,  and  Petrovna 
threw  his  hands  abroad  with  a  resigning  gesture. 

"Yet,"  he  said,  "  I  have  heard  otherwise  from  many." 

"Ah!  "the  Frenchman  answered,  "as  our  friend  here 
says,  it  is  a  young  country,  and  there  are  chances  in  it. 
The  chances,"  he  added,  looking  about  him,  "do  not 
always  prosper.  This  is  the  home  of  enterprise  and 
industry,  but  does  it  look  like  it?" 

"Elsewhere,"  said  Petrovna,  "  in  this  new  land  I  have 
found  prosperity  everywhere.  Why  should  there  be 
poverty  and  stagnation  here  ?  " 

"  This,"  his  companion  answered,  "  might  have  been  as 
prosperous  as  any  place  you  have  found  in  all  your  wan- 
derings. But  the  curse  of  the  capitalist  is  upon  it. 
Every  bit  of  land  worth  any  thing  for  miles  and  miles 
about  us  has  been  bought  by  one  wealthy  man.  This 
handful  of  imported  peasantry  is  bound  by  a  girdle  of 
iron.  It  has  no  power  to  extend  its  boundaries,  and  by 
and  by  it  will  wither  all  awa}^  You  will  not  find  many 
such  places  in  Australia  at  present,  but  unless  things 
change  they  will  be  thick  and  tlireefold  in  a  hundred 
yeai-s,  vast  as  the  country  is.  It  is  a  new  land,  but  the 
old  curse  is  upon  it." 

Rhys,  who  in  his  modesty  had  but  one-third  filled  his 
pipe,  crammed  a  horny  fore-finger  into  the  bowl,  and 
pressed  down  the  little  remnant  of  tobacco  there  to  secure  a 
final  whiff  or  two.  He  planted  his  broad  shoulders  against 
the  wet  weather-board  of  the  house,  and  looked  angrily  at 
2 


18 


the  dismal  prospect  before  him.  Little  Evan  stared  wide- 
eyed  and  open-mouthed  at  the  men  who  thought  it  worth 
while  to  expend  so  much  fire  and  fervor  on  a  jargon  wliich 
must  be  incomprehensible  to  every-body.  The  mother, 
free  of  the  slatternly  child  by  this  time,  lounged  to  the  door 
with  her  hands  beneath  her  apron,  and  surveyed  the  whole 
group  with  pronounced  disfavor. 

Boris  Petrovna  pulled  at  his  well-blacked  clay  in  silence, 
and  looked  discomfited  and  depressed. 

On  a  sudden  a  squelching  and  pounding  noise  was  heard, 
followed  by  the  sound  of  splashing  and  the  long  slide  of 
a  horse's  hoofs.  With  this  last  came  the  tones  of  an 
imperious   voice  : 

*'  Hold  up,  you  stupid  brute  !  and  be  d d  to  you  ! " 

"  That  iss  Squire  Penthearn,"  said  Rh3's,  turning  an 
angry  eye  toward  the  ojioning  in  the  bush,  but  otherwise 
making  no  movement. 

Squire  Penthearn  came  into  the  open  at  a  hand  gallop, 
and  drew  up  in  front  of  the  partyon  the  veranda.  He 
was  in  his  v,'aj  as  Welsh  as  Evan  Rhys  himself,  but  the 
t3'pe  was  wholly  different.  The  peasant  was  black-haired, 
Avith  an  olive  skin  and  e^es  like  night.  The  gentleman 
was  foxy-red,  hair,  beard,  and  eyebrows  all  of  the  same 
rufous  tone.  His  eyes  were  blue-graj',  ami,  though  his 
skin  was  somewhat  tanned  with  lifelong  exposure  to  all 
sorts  of  weather,  it  had  been  originally  of  that  excessive 
fairness  and  pallor  which  so  often  accompany  red  hair. 
His  eyes  blazed  with  anger,  and  the  riding-crop  he  carried 
trembled  in  his  outstretched  hand.  He  had  started  in  a 
rage,  he  had  ridden  in  a  rage  five  miles,  flogging  bis  own 
anger  all  the  waj',  and  now,  what  with  breathlessness, — for 
he  was  a  burly  man,  and  hard  riding  tried  his  wind  a  good 
deal, — and  what  with  the  passion  wliich  by  this  time  fairly 
mastered  him,  he  could  not  speak.  He  sat  snorting  and 
blowing  and  shaking  his  riding-crop  for  near  on  a  minute. 


19 


Rhys's  gloomy  stare  met  his  own  glance  full,  and  the  man, 
nursing  his  now  empty  clay  pipe  in  one  corner  of  his 
mouth,  threw  one  leg  over  the  other,  and  dug  his  hands 
into  his  trousers  pockets  with  an  air  of  contemptuous 
defiance  which  exasperated  Squire  Penthearn  still  further. 

The  Frenchman  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  a 
glance  of  amusement,  which  broadened  more  and  more. 

"Look  here!"  said  the  horseman,  with  a  spluttering, 
wrathful  stammer,  "  look  here,  you  Rhys." 

"I  am  looking,"  said  Rhys,  with  angry  quiet. 

"If  that  brat  of  yours,"  stuttered  Penthearn,  "ever 
dares  to  lay  a  hand  on  my  boy  again,  Pll  cut  his  life  out." 

"  Then,"  said  Rhys,  "  I  sliall  haf  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  hanged,  and  there  will  pe  two  troublesome  people 
less." 

Mr.  Penthearn  was  getting  his  wind  back  again,  and 
began  to  storm  gustily,  his  face  growing  paler  and  paler 
as  he  raged. 

"  My  boy  rides  home,  mud  from  head  to  heel,  with  a 
black  eye,  and  one  tooth  knocked  out,  and  tells  me  it's 
that  young  imp's  doing." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  small  boy.  "What  did  he  say 
'  Halloa'  to  me  for  ?     He  isn't  every-body." 

"  What  did  he  say  '  Halloa  '  to  you  for,  you  spawn  of 
Satan  ! "  cried  the  angry  horseman,  raising  his  crop 
threateningly. 

Evan  Rhys  dashed  at  the  boy,  and  took  him  in  his 
arms. 

"Now,  you  stand  there,"  he  said,  setting  him  in  the 
door-way,  "  and  answer  me.  You  haf  been  fighting  with 
young  Penthearn  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Evan  the  younger,  "  he  challenged  me.  I 
was  on  the  far  side  of  the  crick,  and  he  come  over.  He 
said  any  gentleman  could  beat  a  lout,  and  I  said  he  dussn't 
come.     He  said  he  dar,  and  he  did,  and  we  had  a  fight." 


20 


"  That  seems  all  fair  eiiougli,  doesn't  it,  farmer  ?"  asked 
tlie  3'oung  Frenchman. 

"  Farmer  !  "  cried  Penthcarn,  in  an  exasperation  so  pro- 
found that  the  word  sounded  like  a  cr}?^  of  anguish. 
"  Farmer ! "  His  Welsh  blood  had  been  hot  enough 
already  in  all  conscience,  but  at  this  smiling  insult  he 
fairly  bubbled   over.     lie  contrived  to  stutter  out  :  "  You 

d d    Frenchman  !  "    as   he    struggled   from  his  horse. 

He  was  encumbered  by  the  long  water-proof  cloak  he 
wore,  the  skirt  of  Avhich  caught  in  his  right  spur  ;  but  his 
intention  was  so  evident  that  the  insulter  felt  himself 
justified  in  stepping  from  the  veranda  and  possessing  him- 
self of  the  angry  man's  riding-crop.  There  was  a  tussle, 
which  lasted  only  a  second  or  two,  and  the  Frenchman, 
cool  as  a  cucumber,  had  seized  that  weapon  of  offence  and 
stood  on  guard  with  it,  as  if  to  begin  a  bout  at  single- 
stick. 

"My  good  friend,"  he  said,  "3'ou  are  fat,  and  verging  on 
the  sixties.     It  will  be  quite  a  mistake  for  3'ou  to  assault 

me.     I   am,  as  you  are   good    enough    to  say,  a  d d 

Frenchman,  but  I  Avas  bred  at  Oxford,  and  studied  there 
the  noble  art  of  self-defence." 

Penthearn,  with  a  niight}^  effort,  controlled  himself.  He 
had  pluck  in  plenty,  but,  even  in  the  madness  of  his  anger, 
he  had  self-restraint  enough  to  see  the  ignominy  of  inevi- 
table defeat.  That  fact  did  not  serve  to  cool  him,  though 
it  restrained  him  from  any  further  attempt  at  violence. 

"  Bred  at  Oxford  !  "  he  sneered  passionately,  rising  sud- 
denly from  the  speechless  red  heat  of  excitement  to  that 
white  heat  which  knows  how  to  be  fluent  and  accurate  in 
its  choice  of  words.  "Bred  at  Oxford!  Wherever  you 
were  bred,  you  were  bred  to  be  a  puppy,  a  bully,  and  a  black- 
guard !  You  left  your  country  for  your  country's  good,  I 
fancy.  That's  a  fact,  I  think,  monsieur?  You  ought  to 
be  a  better  man  than  you  are,  for  you  were  sent  out  to 


21 


New  Caledonia  by  three  of  the  best  judges  in  your  own 
country.     They  gave  you  twenty  years,  I  think." 

"  The  jest  is  excellent,"  returned  the  smiling  Frenchman, 
"  but  not  original.  It  was  first  levelled  at  your  fellow-sub- 
jects, inliabitants  of  this  charming  country." 

"  I  won't  parley  with  you  any  more,"  said  Penthearn. 
"And  as  for  you," — turning  on  Rhys, — "I  want  you  to 
understand,  if  that  brat  of  j^ours  dares  to  lay  a  hand 
upon  my  boy  again,  I'll  find  a  way  to  make  him  sorry 
for  it  !  " 

"And,"  said  Evan  Rhys,  flushing  to  the  eyes,  "if  that 
prat  of  3'ours  dares  to  lay  a  hand  upon  my  poy  again,  my 
poy  shall  peat  him  as  he  did  to-day,  and  as  he  can  any 
day." 

"An  excellent  mutual  understanding,"  said  the  French- 
man. "Your  riding-crop,  sir."  He  handed  the  weapon 
to  Penthearn,  who  swung  it  back,  mastered  by  a  new 
impulse  of  rage.  Pie  found  himself  seized  by  either  wrist. 
"  Better  be  quiet,  farmer,"  said  his  adversary,  with  a  face 
of  smiling  mockery.  "  Ride  home,  like  a  good  fellow,  and 
let  us  have  no  more  nonsense.  Boys  will  fight,  and  their 
parents  should  know  better  than  to  interfere  between 
them." 

"  You  infernal  cad  !  "  said  Penthearn.  "  Call  yourself 
the  Comte  de  Montmeillard,  don't  you?" 

"  I  call  myself  nothing,  sir,"  said  the  Frenchman.  "  But 
people  who  know  me  address  me  by  my  name." 

"You're  a  jail-bird,"  said  Penthearn,  "whatever  else 
you  are  !  " 

"That  is  perfectly  true,"  the  Frenchman  answered, 
"  but  a  repetition  of  tlie  statement  may  tempt  me  to  flog 
you,  sir,  and  you  are  an  older  man  than  I  am.  I  should 
advise  j^ou  to  go,  and  to  go  without  delay." 

He  released  his  hold  upon  Pentliearn's  wrists,  and,  turn- 
ing his  back  upon   him,  sprang  lightly  on  to  the  veranda. 


22 


Penthearn  mounted,  and  rode  away  slowly,  without 
another  word. 

"  Mr.  Petrovna,"  said  the  Frenchman,  addressing  Rhys, 
"will  come  wnth  me.  I  can  give  him  house-room  in  my 
little  shanty,  and  he  will  be  happier  with  somebodj'^  whom 
he  can  understand.  Come  with  me,  M.  Petrovna,"  he 
continued,  in  his  own  tongue. 

The  pedler  rose  from  the  three-legged  stool,  re- 
shouldered  his  jjack,  saluted  Rhys  and  his  wife,  and 
trudged  off  through  the  rain  by  the  side  of  his  new-found 
host. 

"  I  say,  dad,"  said  Evan  the  younger,  after  a  pause. 

"  Halloa  !  "  said  Rhys,  looking  down  at  him. 

The  woman  had  gone  indoors  again  to  look  after  her 
supper  of  potatoes. 

"Is  that  true?"  asked  Evan  the  j^ounger.  "Is  Frenchy 
a  lag  ?  " 

"  Yess,  mj'^  poy,"  said  Rhys,  gloomier  than  ever.  "  You 
Avill  know  petter  apout  it  when  you  are  a  man.  That  iss 
how^  all  civilized  countries  treat  men  who  ask  for  freetora." 

"  What  did  he  do  ?  "  asked  Evan  the  younger.  "  He 
didn't  nobble  any  thing  that  didn't  belong  to  him,  did 
he?" 

"  Wait  here  a  minute,"  said  the  father,  "  and  I  will  show 
you  something." 

He  walked  into  the  house,  and  returned  a  moment  later 
with  a  little  shabby  gray  book,  bound  in  glazed  boards. 

"You  haf  been  a  good  po}^  to-day,"  he  said,  laj'ing  his 
big  hand  lightly  oti  the  lad's  tattered  wide-awake.  "There 
iss  a  great  teal  in  this  which  you  will  not  be  able  to  under- 
stand. But  you  can  read  this  little  book,  and  when  you 
have  read  it  all,  you  can  come  to  me,  and  I  will  answer  all 
your  questions." 

Evan  the  younger  expciicnced  a  thrill  of  exultation  as 
he  laid  his  dirty  little  paw  upon  the  volume. 


23 


"You  shall  first,"  said  his  father,  "  wash  j'our  hands, 
and  always  before  you  touch  that  pook  you  sliall  wash 
your  hands." 

Evan  the  younger  darted  into  tlie  house,  and  came  back 
smelling  of  mottled  soap.  In  his  enthusiasm  he  had  even 
attacked  the  unirrigated  surface  of  his  features.  He  was 
clean  from  chin  to  eyebrows,  though  forehead,  ears,  and 
throat  were  still  left  under  their  ancient  winter  incrusta- 
tion. In  summer  Evan  spent  half  his  time  in  the  deeper 
holes  of  the  creek,  but  in  the  cold  season  he  and  water 
rarely  made  acquaintance  with  each  other.  But  being  now 
thus  far  purified,  he  Avas  intrusted  with  the  little  volume, 
and  sat  down  to  study  the  indictment  hurled  against 
Napoleon  the  Little  by  Victor  Hugo.  He  read  it  in  bald 
translation,  and  two-thirds  of  what  he  read  was  beyond 
his  comprehension.  But,  in  spite  of  that,  he  was  inthralled, 
and,  hungry  as  he  was,  his  mother  called  him  twice  or 
thrice  from  tlie  darkened  interior  of  tlie  house  before  he 
could  tear  himself  away  from  the  printed  page  and  the 
last  lingering  touch  of  rainy  twilight  to  attack  his  scanty 
meal. 


CHAPTER  III 

The  winter  weather  was  not  always  disagreeable  at 
Koollala.  Sometimes  tlie  snow-clouds  would  slowly  and 
lingeringly  detach  themselves  from  the  last  spur  of  the 
Alps,  and  leave  a  white  sprinkling  on  the  ground,  but  this 
never  lay  there  for  more  than  an  hour  or  two.  Sometimes 
the  "Southerly  Buster"  would  rage  through  the  bush,  and 
set  the  giant  trees  moaning  and  shrieking  for  a  day  and  a 
night  together.  But  then,  again,  at  times,  the  north  wind, 
whose  arid  breath  in  summer  made  life  an  intolerable 
burden,  would  fan  over  the  forest  with  balmy  wing  ;  and 
at  such  an  hour  it  was  a  luxury  to  breathe  the  winter  air. 
The  spices  which  in  summer  burned  and  intoxicated  grew 
purely  exhilarating  in  the  tempered  cold,  and  manj-^  and 
many  a  day  young  Evan  Rhys,  with  the  indictment  against 
Napoleon  the  Little  tucked  between  his  body  and  his  dirty 
and  tattered  shirt,  would  steal  off  into  the  bush,  and  sur- 
render himself  to  the  w'onder  and  m^'^sterj'^  of  an  enchant- 
ment scarcely  a  tenth  part  understood.  Napoleon  the 
Little  to  his  childisli  fancy  was  not  ver}^  much  more  than 
an  enlarged  edition  of  a  young  Penthearn  who  wanted  to 
say  "  Halloa  "  to  every-body  with  impunity,  and  generally 
to  have  his  own  way,  to  the  detriment  of  otlier  peoj)le. 

It  was  a  queer  book  for  a  child  to  stud}",  and  it  was  read 
under  queer  conditions.  A  year  ago,  when  3'oung  Evan, 
fresh  from  the  West-England  Frying-Pan,  had  found  him- 
self dumped  down  in  tliis  outlandisli  quarter,  the  busli  liad 
frightened  him,  and  he  had  been  afraid  to  venture  a  yard 
from  any  of  the  tracks  cut  through  it.  He  liad  heard 
grevvsome  stories  of  children,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that, 

S4 


25 


of  men  and  women,  who  had  strayed  away  into  that  track- 
less labyrinth,  and  whose  bones  had  been  found,  months, 
and  perhaps  years,  after,  within  a  few  feet  of  the  road  they 
liad  abandoned.  Familiarity  witli  his  surroundings  had 
banished  this  fear,  and  by  this  time  he  dared  to  give  him- 
self a  tolerable  liberty.  He  was  still  in  mortal  dread  of 
snakes,  but  so  long  as  the  cold  weather  lasted  he  could 
afford  to  banish  that  danger  from  his  mind.  So  day  after 
day,  furnished  with  a  hunch  of  bread,  or  one  or  two  cold 
potatoes,  lie  made  off  for  a  bower  he  had  discovered,  and 
there  spelled  over  and  over  again,  with  an  increasing  sense 
of  deeper  meaning  in  it,  the  first  book  he  had  ever  been 
allowed  to  read  unchecked. 

Meantime  the  outlandish  pedler  so  curiously  dropped 
down  at  Koollala  stayed  on  there  at  the  Frenchman's 
shanty.  He  was  picking  up  English  as  a  pigeon  picks  up 
peas,  and  before  he  had  been  there  a  week  found  himself 
master  of  a  score  or  two  of  simple  phrases.  His  pedler's 
pack  was  laid  by,  but  his  trade  was  not  altogether  aban- 
doned, for  his  store  of  pins  and  needles,  threads  and 
cottons,  tapes,  buttons,  writing-paper,  pens,  pencils,  and 
other  small  odds  and  ends,  was  in  fairly  constant  requisi- 
tion among  the  members  of  the  small  settlement.  He 
buckled  to  also,  not  without  ardor,  at  such  Avork  as  his 
companion  could  find  for  him — 'breaking  ground  for  spring 
planting,  chopping  wood,  or  carrying  water  for  household 
uses  from  the  creek.  The  Comte  de  Montmeillard,  as  may 
be  readily  imagined,  made  no  claim  to  liis  title  in  that 
wilderness.  His  Christian  name  of  Edouard  had  been 
Anglicized  and  abbreviated  into  Ned.  In  his  presence,  or 
when  people  wished  to  be  civil  to  him  in  his  absence,  he 
was  called  by  that  name.  When  people  did  not  care  to  be 
civil,  they  called  him  Frenchy.  But  as  a  rule  he  answered 
to  tlie  generic  hail  of  "  Mate  "  or  "  Matey." 

Little  Evan  sat  one  day  reading  in  his  bower.     A  great 


36 


eucalypt  bad  been  slowly  lifted  by  tbe  action  of  its  roots 
until  the  base  of  the  trunk  stood  seven  or  eight  feet  clear 
of  the  ground,  forming  a  cave  in  shape  like  an  inverted  V. 
At  the  base  the  knotted  roots  ran  into  the  rough  semblance 
of  an  armchair,  and  here  the  youthful  student  might  sit, 
sheltered  from  all  winds  but  one,  and  that  one  the  Avarmest. 
The  bush  swarmed  with  harmless  life  about  Lim.  Now 
and  then  a  great  gray  kangaroo  would  go  by  him  like  a 
ghost,  and  now  and  again  a  wallaby,  with  liis  helpless- 
looking  fore-paws  dangling  before  him,  would  sit  on  bis 
tail  to  stare  at  a  strange  species,  and  would  be  off  again 
with  a  ten-foot  hop  at  the  first  movement  the  unknown 
animal  made.  Sometimes  the  bell-bird  sounded  his  pure 
note,  sometimes  the  swish  of  the  whip-bird's  strange  voice 
would  be  heard  ;  then  a  cloud  of  chattering  parrots  would 
skim  over  the  tree-tops  like  a  flash,  or  a  great  lizard,  look- 
ing for  all  the  world  as  if  he  were  clothed  in  wet  oilcloth, 
Avould  be  seen,  languid  with  the  season,  feebly -sunning 
himself  upon  a  slanting  branch.  At  this  time  of  year  there 
was  no  pest  of  fly  or  mosquito,  and  no  fear  of  snakes.  The 
child  was  used  to  the  harmless  denizens  of  the  wilderness, 
and  if  his  boyish  instinct  urged  him  now  and  then  to  hurl 
a  piece  of  rotten  Avood  or  a  chip  of  bark  at  fur,  feather,  or 
oilcloth,  he  Avould  go  back  to  his  dreams  or  his  scarce 
understood  l^age  again,  and  sit  for  hours  in  quiet. 

At  one  such  time  he  heard  a  faint  and  distant  call.  It 
was  so  very  faint  and  far  away  that  he  was  half  inclined 
to  think  it  no  more  than  fancy,  Avhen  it  came  again.  lie 
drew  a  full  breath,  and  with  all  the  force  of  his  lungs  sung 
out  :  "  Coo-ee  !  "  Then  he  waited,  and  in  a  while  he  heard 
the  call  again.  This  time  he  thought  it  sounded  a  little 
nearer.  Again  he  answered,  and  again  the  sound  came 
nearer.  So,  with  call  on  call,  the  wanderer,  whoever  he 
might  prove  to  be,  drew  nearer,  UTitil  Evan  could  hear  the 
noise  of  his  footstej)S  crackling  through  the  dry  under- 


27 


growth.  Another  call,  and  the  adventurer  came  in  sight. 
It  was  no  other  than  the  Russian  pedler,  and  at  the  first 
sight  of  him  it  was  evident  that  he  had  been  in  difficulties. 
His  face  and  hands  were  scratched  with  briars,  and  his 
poor  garments  were  torn  in  half  a  dozen  places.  He  was 
bareheaded,  and  his  hair  and  beard  were  in  wild  disorder, 
and  studded  grotesquely  with  twigs  and  leaves.  His  eyes 
were  still  wide  and  wild  with  recent  fright,  and,  though  the 
day  was  crisp  and  cool,  the  perspiration  streamed  from  his 
face  as  if  it  had  been  dipped  in  water. 

"Halloa,  Matey  !"  said  young  Evan.  "You've  been 
lost." 

"  Lost  !  "  said  the  Russian,  passing  his  trembling  hands 
across  his  face  with  the  look  of  a  man  newl}^  awakened. 
«  Yes,  I  am  lost.     You " 

"  No,"  said  young  Evan,  "  I  ain't  lost.  'Tain't  so 
easy  to  lose  me  about  here.  You've  liad  a  scare,  my 
word  !  " 

"  You  safe  ?  "  asked  the  foreigner,  with  a  pause  between 
each  word.     "  You  know  your  way  ?  " 

"  You  bet  ! "  said  Evan  Rliys. 

Whether  the  man  understood  the  Avords  or  no,  he 
fathomed  the  meaning.  He  took  a  place  upon  the  tree-root 
from  which  the  boy  had  risen  a  few  minutes  earlier,  and 
sat  gingerly  pulling  out  the  thorns  which  stuck  in  the 
back  of  his  hands,  breathing  hard  all  the  time  like  a  man 
who  has  run  himself  to  a  stand-still.  By  and  by  he  became 
aware  of  the  condition  of  his  hair  and  beard,  and  began  to 
comb  them  with  his  fingers. 

"  You  good  bo3%"  he  said.     "  I  forgot  not." 

"  I  heard  you  give  a  chi-hike,"  said  Evan,  "  but  you  was 
so  far  off  I  wasn't  sure.  You  shouldn't  go  into  this  'ere 
bush  alone,"  he  added,  with  an  air  of  fatherly  expostula- 
tion, "  not  unless  you  know  it.  I  don't  ever  go  anywheres 
without  beinsf  sure  of  the  road  back," 


28 


The  foreigner  looked  and  nodded,  and  smiled  in  rather 
a  ghastly  man  nor. 

"  Good  boy,"  he  said  again,  "  I  forget  not.  Go  home 
now?" 

"All  riglit,"  said  young  Evan,  "  I  can  put  you  on  to  the 
track.     You'll  be  all  right  then," 

He  stooped  to  pick  uj)  the  book,  which,  on  his  first  rising 
to  listen  to  that  distant  voice,  he  had  cast  upon  the  ground. 
He  was  about  to  tuck  it  away  beneath  his  shirt  when  the 
Russian  laid  a  hand  upon  his  wrist.  Evan  surrendered  the 
book,  and  the  pedler  looked  at  it  with  a  quaint  lifting  of 
the  eyebrows. 

"  You  read  ? "  he  said,  and  then,  failing  to  find  the 
words  he  wanted,  tapped  the  volume  with  an  illustrative 
finger.  Evan,  with  both  hands  in  his  pockets,  nodded. 
"  That  is  droll,"  said  the  foreigner,  in  his  own  tongue, 
"  but  it  will  do  for  a  beginning." 

He  surrendered  the  volume  to  the  boy's  care,  and  Evan, 
with  an  assured  footstep,  led  the  way.  In  five  minutes 
they  were  on  the  rutted  track  to  the  settlement. 

"That's  the  road,"  said  Evan,  pointing.  "You'll  be 
there  in  ten  minutes." 

"  Good  boy,"  said  the  pedler,  a  third  time,  "  I  forget 
not." 

Evan  went  back  to  his  wood}'  grotto,  and  the  pedler 
walked  briskly  toward  the  settlement,  and  made  straight 
for  his  comrade's  house.  The  Corate  de  Montmeillard,  in 
moleskin  trousers,  uidjlacked  boots,  a  Crimean  shirt,  and 
a  shapeless  wide-awake,  was  on  his  knees  on  the  stilted 
veranda.  His  sleeves  were  turned  up  above  the  elbows, 
and  with  his  right  hand  and  arm  he  was  gravel}^  stirring 
up  a  mash  of  sharps  and  water  for  the  mid-daj'^  refreshment 
of  his  pigs,  who  were  already  loud  in  reminders  of  the 
hour. 

"  Halloa  !  "  he    said,   looking   uj),  and    noting  his  com- 


29 


rade's  condition,  "  you've  been  in  tlie  wars.  What  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

"I  have  been  lost,"  Petrovna  explained.  "I  have  been 
lost  in  the  forest.  Until  I  got  back  to  the  track,  and  could 
see  the  sun  again,  I  thought  I  had  been  lost  for  hours." 

He  detailed  his  adventures,  and  told  how  he  was  just 
coming  to  despair  when  the  boy's  call  had  answered  to  his 
own, 

"And  what  do  you  think  that  child  was  doing  there?" 
he  asked  dramatically. 

"  How  should  I  know  ? "  asked  the  Comte  de  Mont- 
meillard,  drawing  his  arm  and  hand  from  the  stodgy  mess 
he  had  prepared.  He  rolled  up  a  little  pill  of  the  mess 
between  finger  and  thumb,  and,  slipping  it  between  his 
white  teeth,  looked  up  at  his  guest.  "  What  was  he 
doing  ?  " 

"  He  was  reading,"  said  the  pedler,  with  a  laugh — "  he 
was  reading  '  Napoleon  le  Petit,'  by  Victor  Hugo.  I  was 
not  able  to  ask  how  much  he  understood  of  it,  but  I  should 
like  to  know.  You  must  teach  me  English,  my  friend,"  he 
added  ;  "  I  should  like  to  talk  with  that  boy." 

"I  will  teach  you  English,  my  dear  Petrovna,"  the 
count  answered,  "  with  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world.  Just 
take  up  that  bucket  yonder,  and  pour  slowly  into  this  mess 
while  I  stir  it." 

Petrovna  obeyed  this  behest,  and  the  count,  having 
brought  the  swill  to  a  proper  consistency,  gravely  marched 
off  with  it  to  the  pigsty,  where  the  clamor  of  apj^etite 
rose  to  an  ecstasy  at  his  appearance. 

"And  now,"  said  Petrovna,  at  his  return,  "let  us  get  to 
English,  Let  us,  above  all,  be  scientific.  Let  us  begin  witli 
the  verbs.  Your  only  safe  groundwork  for  a  foreign  lan- 
guage is  the  verbs," 

"  Brigadier,"  responded  the  Comte  de  Montmeillard 
flippantly,  "  vous  avez  raison," 


30 


The  two  lit  their  pipes,  Petrovna  took  up  pencil  and 
paper,  and  the  count,  lying  at  lazy  length  upon  his  bed, 
prepared  to  dictate.  Before  nightfall  Boris  Petrovna  had 
safely  packed  away  in  that  piled-up  attic  of  a  head  a  dozen 
English  verbs.  He  pored  over  them  all  the  evening  by 
the  light  of  the  paraffine  lamp,  and  went  to  sleep  repeating 
them. 

lie  had  a  natural  genius  for  languages,  and  in  a  fort- 
night he  could  make  some  headway  through  the  shoals  and 
quicksands  of  an  English  newspaper  paragraph.  At  this 
period  he  became  talkative,  and  would  hold  lengthy  con- 
versations with  the  inhabitants  of  the  settlement.  He 
insisted  upon  making  his  comrade  speak  English,  and 
nothing  but  English,  in  their  daily  intercourse,  and,  though 
at  first  translation  was  pretty  often  necessary,  he  made 
astonishing  strides. 

Spring  came  slowly  up  that  way.  It  was  full  September, 
and  sun  and  wind  were  bright  and  treacherous,  when  young 
Penthearn  and  Evan  Rhys  the  younger  again  encountered. 
The  juvenile  aristocrat  was  riding  by  on  his  pony,  and 
would  have  passed  in  silence.  If  young  Evan  had  known 
every  thing  that  hung  upon  silence  at  that  moment,  he 
would  have  let  him  go,  but  he  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  be  domineering  in  his  turn.  He  swung  upon  his 
lieel,  and  sent  a  contemptuous  shout  of  "Halloa  !  "  after 
the  cavalier,  who  was  already  half  out  of  earshot.  The 
blood  of  the  Penthearns  awoke. 

"  Who  are  you  calling  after?"  shouted  the  latest  scion 
of  the  name. 

"  You,"  said  Evan. 

The  insult  was  complete  and  formal. 

*'  Wait  till  I  tie  up  my  pon}',"  said  Master  Penthearn, 
riding  back  full  heat. 

"  Oh,"  said  young  Evan,  "  I'll  wait." 

The  prestige  of  victory  was  with  Evan  the  younger,  and 


31 


the  sting  of  defeat  rankled  in  little  Pentliearn's  heart. 
The  one  was  pretty  certain  of  a  renewal  of  victory,  and 
the  other  as  certain  of  a  repetition  of  disaster.  The  young 
gentleman  was  pale,  but  he  was  not  going  to  be  afraid 
because  he  was,  in  all  probability,  going  to  be  beaten. 
He  was  here,  as  it  were,  for  execution,  and  prepared  to 
meet  fate  with  all  the  courage  he  could  command  ;  but 
children  are  like  savages  in  the  impulse  to  brag,  and  as  a 
savage  trussed  for  torture  will  shout  his  own  glories  in  the 
teeth  of  enmity,  so  3'oung  Penthearn  turned  upon  Evan. 

"You  haven't  got  a  pon}^,"  he  said.  Evan  took  off  his 
jacket,  determined  to  avenge  that  circumstance  along  with 
others.  "  And  if  you  had,"  young  Penthearn  added,  "  you 
couldn't  ride  him,  nor  yet  you  dare  not  trj'." 

"All  right,"  said  Evan  ;  "I'll  ride  him  home  for  you. 
You'll  have  to  walk,  see  if  you  don't." 

There  was  a  new  fight,  and  an  old  result.  Even  Homer 
can  grow  tedious  with  the  story  of  oft-repeated  battle,  and 
the  records  of  "  Fistiana"  have  no  more  variety  after  many 
years  of  reading.  One  wearies  of  the  fact  that  the  Chicken 
countered  smartl}^  landing  on  the  right  ogle,  or  that  the 
Pet  got  home  heavily  on  the  bread-basket.  The  eternal 
fact  that  one  or  the  other,  or  both,  came  up  smiling  and 
looking  dangerous  palls  on  the  intelligence  of  the  student 
of  past  manners.  Let  the  fact,  then,  be  recorded  with  all 
brevity  :  the  fight  was  fought,  and  poverty  won  it.  The 
little  Penthearn,  who  had  been  taught,  and  who  believed 
with  all  his  soul,  that  a  boy  of  good  breeding  was  worth 
two  of  the  commonalt}',  was  staggered  anew  by  this  result, 
alike  in  mind  and  bod3^  But  the  young  Evan  fulfilled  his 
threat,  and,  mounting  the  pon^^,  rode  him  home,  right  to 
the  slip  panel  of  Mr.  Pentliearn's  home  paddock.  There 
he  turned  him  loose,  and,  with  a  sounding  smack  on  the 
haunches,  sent  him  galloping  toward  the  house. 

The  empty  saddle  told  a  tale  of  disaster  to  the  Penthearn 


32 


household,  and  the  boy  was  sought  for  far  and  near.  He 
came  home  afoot,  a  dismal  spectacle,  an  hour  and  a  half 
after  the  ponj^'s  arrival,  while  his  father,  with  all  the  run- 
riders  and  rouseabouts  within  call,  Avas  scouring  the 
countr}^  after  him.  The  squire  came  home  after  sunset, 
and,  finding  the  boy  safe,  gave  him  a  good,  sound,  fatherly 
hiding  for  having  been  again  beaten  by  j^oung  Evan,  and 
sent  him  to  bed. 

None  the  less,  the  squire's  wrath  burned.  In  his  own 
way  he  was  as  good  a  fellow  as  might  be  found.  That  he 
was  choleric  was  a  fault  of  blood.  That  he  was  domineer- 
ing was  a  fault  of  breeding.  That  he  hated  Evan  Rhj^s 
and  all  who  bore  his  name  was  a  fault  of  education  and 
custom.  Evan  Rliys's  father  in  far  off  Merionethshire  had 
been  a  thorn  in  his  father's  side,  and  Avhen  Squire  Penth- 
earn,  growing  poorer  year  bj^  jx'ar  at  home,  and  finding  it 
year  by  year  more  difficult  to  make  both  ends  meet,  had 
resolved  to  expatriate  himself,  he  learned  with  passion  that 
his  old  enemy  had  settled  himself  with  all  his  old  dis- 
content, and  his  accustomed  sullen  rebellion,  within  five 
miles  of  his  gates. 

Had  it  been  daylight  when  the  news  of  this  last  outrage 
reached  him,  he  would  have  ridden  to  KooUala  at  once,  and 
would  have  had  his  quariel  out  with  Evan  Rhys  in  one 
way  or  another.  As  it  was,  the  road  being  dark  and 
dangerous  in  darkness,  and  lie  being  pretty  well  tired 
already,  he  went  to  bed  and  slept  upon  his  anger,  with 
no  very  good  result  as  things  turned  out.  His  morning's 
resolve  was  to  treat  "  that  fellow  out  there  "  with  con- 
tempt, to  forbid  his  boy  from  wandering  in  the  direction 
of  Koollala,  and  to  let  the  matter  slide.  Yet,  day  by  day, 
while  he  mused,  the  fire  burned,  and,  on  the  whole,  Squire 
Penthearn  was  much  more  likely  to  be  dangerous  to  him- 
self and  others  because  of  the  very  self-repression  he 
exerted. 


33 


Nobody  ever  knew  quite  clearly  how  the  fatal  business 
came  about,  and  it  is  quite  possible  tliat,  even  if  Penthearn 
himself  had  survived,  the  story  would  have  been  very 
much  left  in  darkness.  The  people  of  Koollala  went  on 
quietly  planting  their  meagre  crops,  eating  their  meagre 
meals,  and  watching  the  last  potentiality  of  misery  as  it 
came  nearer,  week  by  week,  until  at  last  full  summer 
blazed  down  upon  the  whole  country.  The  hot  winds 
beat  pitilessly  from  the  north,  the  sun  flamed  like  some 
unbelievable  jewel  in  a  white  sky,  the  yellow  sunset  sad- 
dened night  by  night  over  every  thing  for  a  brief  quarter 
of  an  hour  or  so,  and  then  the  darkness,  charged  with  a 
heat  more  oppressive  even  than  that  of  mid-day,  swept  to 
the  zenith  and  beyond.  The  turbid  waters  of  the  creek 
had  all  run  down  to  the  ocean  long  ago,  and  now  only  here 
and  there  a  rocky  pool  remained. 

One  night  Evan  Rhys  the  elder,  who  had  tramped, 
starting  at  early  dawn,  to  Manchester,  a  score  of  miles 
away,  and,  starting  back  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
had  tramped  home,  entered  the  shanty  with  a  pale  and 
excited  face.  He  said  nothing,  and  when  his  wife 
ungraciously  pushed  across  the  table  the  tin  plate  con- 
taining his  evening  meal,  he  pushed  it  back  again.  His 
wife  noticed,  at  first  with  no  surprise,  that  the  hand  which 
removed  the  untasted  dish  grasped  a  broken  stick  of  some 
sort.  But,  the  ponderous  fist  resting  on  the  table,  she 
made  out  by  and  by  that  the  stick  was  not  of  common 
wood,  but  of  a  delicately  painted  malacca,  and  that  the 
handle  was  of  buckhorn,  bound  to  the  cane  by  a  mount 
of  silver. 

"  What  've  you  got  there  ?  "  she  asked. 

Her  husband,  looking  at  her,   caught  the  direction  of 

her  eye,  and  flung  the  thing  to  the  ground  savageh\     She 

picked  it  up,  and  by  the  light  of  the  candle  saw  that  her 

own  hand  was  red.     One  end  of  the  stick  was  broken  to 

3 


34 


a  jagged  point,  and  there  for  two  or  tliree  inches  it  was 
half  caked  and  half  glutinous  with  blood. 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  frightened 
whisper. 

"  I  proke  it  on  his  lying  head,"  said  Evan  Rhys. 
"  I  peat  him  on  his  wicked  body  as  long  as  it  would 
hold." 

"  You'll  be  in  trouble  over  this,"  said  his  wife. 

"Ihaf  been  in  trouble  about  many  things,"  said  Evan 
Rhys.     "  I  haf  been  in  trouble  all  mj'-  life." 

There  was  a  dreadful  stir  in  all  the  countryside.  Mr. 
Penthearn  of  Merioneth  Station  was  missing.  Nobody 
had  seen  him  for  a  day  or  two.  There  was  no  reason  to 
be  assigned  why  he  should  have  gone  away,  and  every 
enquiry  that  was  set  on  foot  failed  to  hit  the  mark. 
Rhj^s  went  about  his  work  in  his  ordinary  fashion,  and 
his  wife,  shaken  with  horrible  tremors  and  suspicions, 
burned  the  malacca  cane,  and  stirred  the  fire  again 
and  again  until  even  the  silver  band  was  a  cinder, 
and  the  buckhorn  handle  an  unrecognizable  bit  of  charred 
bone. 

The  young  Evan,  whose  ears  had  scarcely  been  touched 
by  the  news,  if  at  all,  was  afoot  one  radiant  morning  with 
a  volume  of  Orr's  *'  Circle  of  the  Sciences "  tucked  for 
safety  in  his  waistband.  He  had  borrowed  the  book  from 
Sandy  Quahar,  a  neighboring  Scot,  with  some  reputation 
for  humor  and  a  turn  for  letters,  and  he  Avas  away,  for  the 
first  time  for  a  month,  to  make  acquaintance  with  his  new 
treasure  in  his  old  haunt.  He  chased  an  oj^ossura  some 
thirty  or  fortj'^  yards  from  his  accustomed  track,  and  on 
a  sudden,  right  at  his  feet,  arose  an  enormous  cloud  of 
flies.  He  started  back  and  stood  with  a  feeling  of  terror 
for  which  he  could  have  given  no  reason  even  to  himself. 
The  cloud  of  flies  settled  down  again,  thick  and  black, 
but  he  saw  and  recognized  the  watch-chain  and  the  bunch 


35 


of  seals  which  had  always  been  a  part  to  him  of  the  figure 
of  Squire  Penthearn.  There  was  a  sickly  poison  in  the 
air,  and  a  no  less  sickly  terror  in  his  heart.  He  ran  till 
he  could  run  no  longer,  and  by  sheer  hazard  fell  face 
downward  on  the  track  which  lay  between  Merioneth 
Lodge  and  Koollala. 


CHAPTER  IV 

On  the  open  track  the  sun  blazed  intolerably.  Little 
Evan  gatliered  himself  up  after  his  fall  and  ran.  But  he 
had  scarcely  gone  a  score  of  yards  further  when  something 
seemed  to  take  him  at  the  throat  from  the  inside  and  he 
began  to  sob  terribly.  The  clutching  hand  at  his  throat 
took  his  breath  away,  but  he  stumbled  homeward  somehow, 
with  all  his  raiment  sticking  to  his  body.  AVhen  he  came 
in  sight  of  the  home  shanty,  his  mother  was  sitting  with 
folded  hands  on  the  veranda,  nursing  her  own  angry  and 
disappointed  temper  in  the  shade.  The  sound  of  young 
Evan's  blubbering  reaching  her  ears,  she  turned  wrath- 
fully.  A  child's  trouble  was  an  instant  cue  for  punish- 
ment. The  poor  soul  had  been  maternal  once  after  a 
fashion,  but  a  life  of  grinding  i:)overty  had  soured  her 
temper. 

"  What's  the  matter  now,  ye  gurt  brabblin'  oaf  ?  "  she 
demanded. 

Evan  came  stumbling  on,  and  climbed  the  little  ladder 
which  led  to  the  veranda. 

"  The  squire "  began  Evan,  but  a  sob  made  the  words 

inaudible. 

His  mother  shook  him  fiercely  by  the  shoulder.  "  "What 
have  yew  got  to  howl  about  ?  "  she  asked. 

"The  squire "  gasped  Evan,  and  this  time  she  heard 

the  words,  and  fell  back  with  a  face  as  white  as  death.  Her 
mouth  opened  and  stayed  open,  showing  half  a  dozen  rug- 
ged gaps  where  the  teeth  had  fallen  away.  Something 
clicked  audibly  and  harshly  in  her  throat  twice  or  thrice, 
but  at  last  she   spoke,   with   a  tremendous  effort   and  a 

36 


ghastly  attempt  at  unconcern.  This,  following  on  the 
evident  horror  with  which  she  had  greeted  the  first 
mention  of  the  name,  alarmed  the  terrified  boy  still 
further. 

"  What  about  him?  "  asked  Mrs.  Rhys. 

"  He's  lying  in  the  bush  a  mile  from  here.  He's  dead. 
He's  all  over  flies,  and " 

Before  Evan  knew  what  had  happened  his  mother  felled 
him  with  one  brawny  hand,  and  with  the  other  had 
dragged  him  inside  the  shanty.  She  landed  him  roughly 
on  his  feet,  and  slammed  the  crazy  door  with  a  vigoi'ous 
motion  of  her  foot.  A  dilapidated  old  blanket,  soaked  in 
water,  had  been  tacked  across  the  empty  window-frame,  so 
that  now  the  room  was  dark,  except  for  one  or  two  pierc- 
ing arrows  of  light  which  found  their  way  through  chinks 
in  the  wall  and  door. 

"  You  young  imp  ! "  said  the  mother,  in  an  awful 
whisper,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  it  ?  What  do  you  mean 
by  coming  hoam  with  a  taiil  like  that !  " 

The  unexpected  assault  and  the  sudden  change  from 
light  to  darkness,  coming  on  the  child'so  riginal  terror  and 
distress,  left  him  not  only  sjieechless,  but  empty  of  sensa- 
tion. 

"  You've  been  a-dreamin',  you  have,"  said  Mrs.  Rhys. 
"  You've  been  and  fell  asleep  in  that  there  bush,  and 
you've  had  a  nightmare.  Don't  you  never  let  me  hear  no 
more  o'  that  nonsense.     Do  you  hear  me,  now  ?  " 

"But  he  was  there,"  said  the  boy.  "I  see  him  a-lyin' 
o«  his  back,  with  the  flies  on  him  as  thick  as " 

The  mother's  heavy  hand  came  down  again,  but  he 
evaded  it. 

"  Don't  you  let  me  hear  no  more  of  that  cussid  rub- 
bidge,"  she  said,  still  speaking  in  the  same  harsh  Avhispcr. 

Ever  since  he  could  remember  young  Evan  had  been  at 
war  with  a  cruel  and  unreasoning  authority,  but  he  had 


38 


never  felt  so  indignant  against  it  as  lie  now  began  to  feel. 
He  dodged  to  reach  the  other  side  of  the  heavy  table,  but, 
tripping  over  a  bucket,  which  was  invisible  in  the  thick 
twilight,  fell  headlong.  But  before  his  mother,  whose 
eyes  were  as  little  accustomed  to  the  darkness  as  his  own, 
could  seize  him  he  had  crawled  under  the  table,  and  had 
found  a  refuge  on  the  other  side.  Rebellious  anger  was 
fast  driving  out  the  terror  by  which  he  had  been  first 
assailed,  and  he  could  command  his  voice  again. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  rubbidge  and  nightmares,"  he 
cried,  at  the  top  of  his  shrill  voice.  *'  The  squire's  a-lyin' 
in  the  bush.  I  seen  him.  I  was  within  a  yard  of  him. 
What  've  ye  got  to  knock  me  about  for  ?  It  wasn't  me  as 
killed  him." 

"Evan,"  said  his  mother,  in  a  horror-stricken  whisper, 
«  Evan,  hush  !  " 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Evan,  in  a  lower  voice.  "  What 
do  3^ou  want  to  punch  my  head  for  ?  I  'on't  stand  it.  I'll 
go  away  and  drownd  myself  in  the  crick  fust." 

"  Evan,  dear,"  said  his  mother,  "  Evan,  darling,  I  never 
meant  to  strike  you.  It  was  being  surprised  like  as  made 
me  do  it.  But  don't  yew  never  speak  a  word  about  it. 
Now,  don't  'ee  !  don't  'ee  !  don't  'ee  !  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Evan,  content  with  truce,  obtained 
on  what  terms  soever.  "  But  don't  you  smack  my  'ead  no 
more  for  nothin'.     I  'on't  have  it,  and  so  I  tell  you." 

"  No,  no,  Evan,  dear,"  the  woman  whined.  "  I  'on't  do  it 
never  any  more.  But,  Evan,  dear,  don't  yew  never  say  a 
word  about  that  there  gliastly  fancy.  Yew  haven't  seen 
nothin',  and  ye  know  ye  haven't." 

She  began  to  coax  him,  and  would  have  fawned  upon 
him,  but  that  the  boy,  mistrusting  strategy,  evaded  her, 
and  kept  to  his  own  side  of  the  table.  Tliey  were  both  so 
occupied  that  neither  heard  the  footstep  of  Evan  Rhys  the 
elder  as  he  mounted  the  ricket}'^  steps  and   strode  across 


39 


the  veranda.  He  pushed  the  door  open  with  his  foot,  and 
let  in  a  sudden  stream  of  light. 

"  It  iss  you  for  darkness,"  he  said,  wiping  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  brow  with  the  back  of  his  big  tanned  hand. 

"I  can't  abide  that  there  glare,"  his  wife  answered. 
"  I'm  just  a-goin'  to  send  our  Evan  on  a  errand.  Look  'ere, 
Evan," — she  drew  him  from  the  room  on  to  the  veranda, 
and  wliispered  to  him  hastily, — "if  your  father  was  to 
know  what  you've  been  talkin'  about,  he'd  skin  yew  alive. 
Now,  don't  yew  make  any  mistake  about  that.  He'd  skin 
y'  alive.  Now,  yew  run  and  pla}'^  anywheres  joii  like, 
there's  a  good  boy,  but  don't  you  speak  a  word  about 
that  there  notion  o'  yours,  not  if  you  sets  a  vally  on  your 
life." 

Young  Evan,  mightily  bewildered  by  it  all,  gripped  the 
veranda  bar  and  swung  himself  to  the  ground.  The 
broad,  briglit,  desolate  sunshine  flamed  everywhere.  The 
familiar  section  of  the  bush  repelled  him.  He  had  no 
mind  to  face  again  the  palpable  horror  which  lay  hidden 
in  its  quiet  and  rarely  trodden  solitude.  He  made  his 
way  down  to  the  creek,  and,  having  there,  with  some  diffi- 
culty, found  a  shadowed  hole  deep  enough  to  bathe  in,  he 
stripped  and  plunged  into  the  clear,  tepid  water.  There 
were  at  first  too  many  emotions  working  in  his  mind  for 
any  one  of  them  to  be  dominant  and  steadfast.  The 
tumbled  chaos  of  tliought  and  feeling  consisted  raainl}'^  of 
tliree  elements  :  terror,  anger  at  injustice,  and  mere  won- 
der. Anger  died  first,  and  then  wonder  and  horror 
remained  behind.  Why  should  his  mother  have  been  so 
terrified  and  angry  at  the  mere  mention  of  tlie  squire's 
name  ?  Why  should  what  he  knew  to  be  a  fact  be  treated 
as  if  it  were  nothing  more  than  a  dream  ?  And  if  it  hdd 
been  only  a  dream,  why  should  he  liave  to  be  so  strenu- 
ously forbidden  to  speak  about  it  to  any  body  ?  Of  course 
the  thoughts  of  a  child  not  yet  eight  years  of  age  take  no 


40 


such  settled  form  as  this,  but  this  in  the  main  was  the 
upshot  of  young  Evan's  reflections.  Finally  even  the 
wonder  died,  and  nothing  but  the  horror  remained  behind, 
and  in  that  there  was  a  certain  sort  of  invitation.  The 
ghastly  thing  called  out  to  him,  and  he  felt  as  if  there  were 
something  like  a  compulsion  upon  him  to  go  and  look  at  it. 
He  could  see  it  clearly  enough,  in  all  conscience,  in  mere 
fancy.  He  had  never  been  worth  much  in  his  life,  but, 
poor  as  he  was,  he  had  his  little  lioard  of  boyish  treasures, 
and  he  would  have  given  them  all  never  to  have  set  eyes 
upon  it.  He  not  only  had  no  Avish  ever  to  see  it  again 
but  he  shrank  from  it  with  absolute  loathing  and  blank 
terror,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  draw  him  toward  itself  im- 
perativel}^. 

He  got  out  of  his  tepid  bath,  and  sat  a  while  upon  a 
sheltered  shelf  of  rock  to  dry.  Then  he  dressed  idly  and 
lingeringly,  resolving  all  the  while  that  he  would  avoid  his 
old  section  of  the  bush  altogether,  and  prospect  for  a  new 
bower  in  a  different  direction.  The  fallen  gum-tree  still 
formed  a  bridge  across  the  creek,  and  the  whole  unex- 
plored country  beyond  that  boundary  lay  open  to  him. 
He  would  try  that  side,  and,  so  thinking,  he  arose  and 
scrambled  back  into  the  full  glare  of  the  sunshine.  Then 
he  changed  his  mind  ;  it  was  too  hot  to  go  anywhere  just 
then  ;  he  would  saunter  home  and  go  to  sleep  on  the  shady 
side  of  the  house  in  the  little  garden  patch.  But  by  the 
time  he  had  reached  his  father's  shanty  he  had  changed 
his  mind  again.  He  was  not  going  near  It,  but  he  Avould 
wander  a  little  way  along  the  bush  track.  The  horror  of 
the  morning  began  to  get  hold  of  him  once  more,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  the  bush  looked  desolate  and  fear- 
ful to  him.  He  stood  balanced  between  a  di'eadful  fear 
and  a  curiosity  as  dreadful.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight. 
There  was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  but  the  ceaseless  and 
monotonous  drone  of  countless  insects.     He  tore  a  branch 


41 


from  a  low-growing  shrub  and  beat  away  the  swarm  of  flies 
which  surrounded  him  as  he  moved.  They  brought  to 
mind  the  sight  he  had  seen,  and  he  shuddered  anew  to 
think  of  it. 

"  I  'ouldn't  go  nigh  there  again,"  he  said  aloud,  half 
frightened  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice — "  I  'ouldn't  go 
a-nigli  it  not  for  a  'undred  million  thousand  pounds." 

Yet  he  went  on,  hoiTibly  afraid  and  horribly  curious.  He 
entered  the  bush  at  the  accustomed  spot,  where  his  childish 
feet  had  long  since  made  a  faintly  perceptible  track,  and, 
terror  tugging  at  his  very  soul,  took  his  familiar  way  with 
halting  footsteps  frequently  arrested. 

Then  the  Thing  began  to  be  quite  suddenly  everywhere 
about  him.  He  could  have  walked  unhesitatingly  to 
where  it  la}'^  could  he  have  found  the  courage,  and  yet  in 
some  mysterious  fashion  he  felt  it  behind  him,  before  him, 
and  on  either  side  of  him  at  once.  It  lurked  in  every 
shadow  of  the  gloomy  woods.  It  took  all  manner  of 
strange  attitudes.  He  saw  the  face,  but  it  never  wore  the 
same  expression  for  an  instant.  It  Avas  angry,  it  was 
smiling,  it  was  unconcerned,  it  writhed  in  some  unspeak- 
able torment. 

If  young  Evan  could  have  broken  free  of  his  own 
terrors,  he  would  have  raced  from  the  spot,  but  he  felt 
rooted  there,  as  if  he  had  been  in  a  nightmare.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  rustle.  A  wallaby  hopped  across  the  trail,  and 
the  terror  he  inspired  broke  the  meshes  of  that  magnetic 
net  which  had  seemed  closing  round  the  boy's  heart. 
Young  Evan  turned  and  fled  again,  nor  stopped  until  he 
was  once  more  in  sight  of  home. 

He  lingered  about,  not  caring,  for  some  unknown  reason, 
to  enter.  On  the  unshaded  side  of  the  house  the  weather- 
board burned  the  hand  which  rested  on  it.  The  house 
was  roofed  with  a  thick,  tarred  felt,  and  this  sizzled  in  the 
sun,  giving  forth  a  peculiar  disagreeable  odor  of  its  own. 


42 


Not  a  soul  was  astir  about  tlie  whole  settlement.  All  the 
waters  of  the  duck-pond  had  long  since  evaporated,  and 
the  bed  gaped  with  thirsty  fissures.  To  the  fancy  of  the 
moment  there  seemed  something  more  friendly  in  winter's 
cold  and  rain  than  in  this  unwinking  sunlight  and  this 
sweltering  heat. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  a  distant  jingle,  and  j)res- 
ently  there  rode  into  the  clearing  a  man  attired  in  well- 
fitting  cord  breeches,  a  red  flannel  shirt,  and  a  slouched 
hat.  Round  his  waist  went  a  broad  belt,  from  which 
hung  a  revolver-case  of  time-stained  leather.  A  rifle  hung 
at  his  back,  and  he  Avas  solidly  but  neatly  booted  and 
spurred.  While  young  Evan  gazed  at  him  in  some  aston- 
ishment, the  man  paused,  turned,  and  looked  back  on  the 
bush  road  from  which  he  had  just  emerged.  Then  came 
another  jingling  sound,  and  two  men,  clad  precisely  like 
the  first  comer,  joined  him.  The  first  figure  had  been 
sufficiently  striking  to  the  boy's  inexperienced  eye,  but  the 
three  together  made  quite  a  show,  and  filled  him  with  an 
agreeable  wonder.  They  were  all  dressed  precisely  alike. 
Then  the  horses  they  rode  were  all  pretty  much  of  a  size, 
and  the  men  were  all  three  weather-tanned,  close-cropi>ed 
about  the  head,  and  heavily  mustached  and  bearded.  At 
the  first  glance  they  were  so  much  alike  that  all  three 
might  have  come  from  the  same  mould,  and  have  been 
colored  from  the  same  palette.  They  held  a  moment's 
conversation,  and  then  rode  forward  together  abreast. 
One  of  them  hailed  3'oung  Evan. 

"  I  say,  you  boy  !  is  this  Koollala  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Evan. 

"  There's  a  man  living  here,"  said  the  spokesman  of  the 
trio,  "  named  Evan  Rhys.     Wliich  is  his  house  ?  " 

"This  is  it,"  said  young  Evan,  pointing. 

"  Any  body  in  ?  "  the  man  asked. 

"  Father  and  mother's  both  at  home,"  said  Evan. 


43 


"  Oh,"  said  the  man,  and,  taking  up  a  handful  of  his 
great  beard,  bit  at  it  for  a  second  or  two  in  silence,  regard- 
ing the  boy  meanwhile.  "  You'd  better  run  away  and 
play,  my  lad,"  he  said  at  length,  but  Evan  was  too 
inspired  by  curiosity  to  follow  this  advice,  and  waited  to 
see  what  might  happen.  The  man  took  no  further  notice 
of  him,  but,  riding  up  to  the  veranda,  struck  one  of  the 
uprights  supporting  the  roof  with  a  stout  switch  he 
carried.  "  House,  there  !  Evan  Rhys,  you're  wanted. 
Keep  a  lookout  on  the  back.  Bill,"  he  said,  addressing 
one  of  his  companions. 

The  man  to  whom  this  order  was  given  moved  quietly 
so  as  to  command  a  view  of  the  i"ear  of  the  shanty,  keep- 
ing his  comrades  in  sight  meantime.  Evan  Rhys  appeared 
upon  the  platform. 

"Good-afternoon,  mate,"  he  said  quietly.  "You  want 
to  speak  to  me  ?  " 

"  If  you're  Evan  Rhys,"  the  other  answered. 

"  I  am  Efan  Rhys." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  cavalier.  "  You've  got  to  be  care- 
ful what  you  say.     Where  was  you  last  Monday  ?" 

"  I  wass  here  in  the  morning,"  said  Rhys.  "  Then 
I  walked  to  Manchester,  then  I  wass  here  again  at 
night." 

"  You  walked  back  ?  " 

"  Yess,  I  walked  back." 

"  Then  you  crossed  Merioneth  Station  ?  " 

"  Yess,"  said  Evan  Rhys, "  I  crossed  Merioneth  Station." 

"  Did  you  see  Mr.  Penthearn  ?  " 

"  I  did,"  said  Evan  Rhys. 

"  Oh,  you  did,  did  j'ou  ?"  asked  the  spokesman,  looking 
right  and  left  at  his  two  comrades,  and  again  gathering 
his  beard  in  a  great  handful,  and  biting  at  it  for  a 
silent  second  or  two.  "  Well,  now,  you've  got  to  be 
careful." 


44 


"I  haf  not  got  at  all  to  be  careful,"  said  Evan  Rhys. 

"  Did  you  speak  to  him  ?  " 

"I  spoke  to  hiin." 

"Well,  now,  look  here,"  said  the  horseman,  after  an 
uncertain  pause,  "  fair  play's  a  jewel.  You  know  Avhat  we 
are,  1  suppose,"  nodding  his  head  at  his  comrades  left  and 
right. 

"Oh,  3"ess,"  said  Rhys;  "3'ou  pelong  to  the  police  at 
Manchester," 

"  You  know  that  Mr.  Penthearn's  been  missing  since 
Monday  night." 

"  Oh,  yess,"  said  Rhys,  "  I  have  been  tolt  that." 

"  Well,  now,  if  you  like,"  said  the  horseman,  "  you  can 
go  ahead  and  spin  any  kind  of  yarn  you  please,  but  if  I 
was  you,  between  man  and  man,  I  should  say  nothing. 
Any  thing  you  do  say  it  will  be  my  duty  to  repeat  after 
you  in  the  proper  place.  You  know  where  that  is,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yess,"  said  Rhj'^s,  "I  know  where  that  iss." 

"  It's  known  far  and  wide,"  said  the  horseman,  Avhom 
even  young  Evan  now  began  to  recognize  as  an  officer  of 
police,  "that  Mr.  Penthearn  and  you  have  been  quarrelling 
like  blazes  ever  since  he  came  to  settle  down  here.  You're 
the  only  man  as  is  known  to  have  nursed  any  grudge  ag'in 
him.  He's  been  missed  now  since  Monday,  and  naturally, 
don't  you  see,  suspicion  points  at  you.  I  shall  ask  you  to 
come  along  with  me,  and  if  I  was  in  3'our  place  I  shouldn't 
say  another  word." 

"  Fery  well,"  said  Rhys,  "I  don't  want  to  say  any 
thing." 

"You'd  better  make  up  a  bit  of  a  swag,"  said  the 
officer,  "  if  you  want  to  be  comfortable — a  shirt  or  two. 
Odds  and  ends  like  that." 

"All  right,"  said  Rliys,  "I'll  be  pack  in  a  minute." 

He  was  to  all  appearance  perfectly  unmoved,  and  seemed 


45 


to  take  no  account  of  the  dreadful  charge  which  was  hang- 
ing over  him.  His  wife,  who  had  heard  every  word  of  the 
colloquy,  sat  upon  the  side  of  the  untidy  bed,  with  her 
apron  thrown  over  her  face,  and  rocked  herself  to  and  fro 
witliout  a  sound.  Little  Evan  stood  in  the  sunlight,  star- 
ing from  one  horseman  to  another.  He  understood  every 
thing  now  quite  clearly.  The  body  that  lay  in  the  bush  a 
mile  away,  with  that  thick  crowd  of  flies  black  about  it, 
had  been  robbed  of  life  by  his  father's  hand.  He  was  so 
shaken  by  horror  at  this  thought  tliat  he  began  to  laugh. 
He  was  very  young,  but  not  too  young  to  know  that  at 
such  a  moment  laughter  would  look  altogether  shameless 
and  heartless  in  its  levity,  but  for  the  life  of  him  he  could 
not  restrain  himself.  The  three  mounted  men  turned  and 
stared  at  him  in  amazement. 

"You're  a  nice  young  cub,  you  are,"  said  the  nearest 
man,  and,  stooping  from  his  saddle,  cut  him  smartly  across 
the  back  with  the  switch  he  carried.  A  sudden  bittei- 
sense  that  the  blow  was  undeserved — that,  and  the 
pain  of  it,  and  the  sense  of  shame,  changed  the  current 
of  his  feeling  in  a  second,  and  he  burst  into  a  loud, 
weeping. 

"That's  changed  your  tune,  has  it?"  said  the  officer 
contemptuously.  "You  get  out  of  my  reach  or  I'll  give 
you  something  more  to  howl  for."  Young  Evan  cast  him- 
self on  the  ground,  hiding  his  face,  and  mufiling  his  sobs 
in  the  sleeves  of  his  ragged  jacket.  "  Pretty  tender  hide 
yoiCve  got,"  pursued  the  horseman,  more  contemptuous 
than  before. 

Young  Evan  could  have  spoken  no  Avord  to  defend  him- 
self even  if  he  would.  His  heart  writhed  under  the 
unmerited  insult. 

Indoors  his  father  packed  up  a  small  bundle  in  a  red 
handkerchief,  and  left  the  house  without  a  word  of  fare- 
well.    His  wife  still  rocked  herself  upon  the  edge  of  the 


46 


bed,  with  her  rougli  red  arms  folded  across  her  bi'east, 
and  her  face  hidden  in  the  folds  of  her  coarse  apron.  As 
Rhys  appeared  on  the  veranda  the  senior  officer  dis- 
mounted from  his  horse,  threw  his  reins  to  a  comrade,  and 
produced  a  pair  of  handcuffs  from  his  pocket.  Rhys  set 
the  knot  of  his  little  parcel  between  his  teeth,  and  held 
out  both  hands. 

"  It's  a  longish  tramp  into  Manchester,"  said  the  police- 
man, as  he  adjusted  the  handcuffs,  "and  you  can  have  a 
lift  from  time  to  time.  To  begin  with,  you'd  better 
march  in  front."  He  slung  his  rifle  into  an  easier 
position,  and  struck  the  butt  of  it  solidly  with  his  hand. 
"  You  know  what  to  expect  if  you  come  any  hanky- 
panky." 

"I  know  what  to  expect,"  said  Rhys,  as  dispassionate 
as  an  echo.  "  I  shall  co  straight.  Good-py,  my  little 
Efan."  He  knelt  down  by  the  boy's  side,  and  took  him  in 
his  manacled  hands. 

"  You  needn't  bother  about  him,  matey,"  said  the  one 

man  who  had  hitherto  kept  silence.     "  It's  d d   little 

he  cares." 

"You're  a  liar!"  flamed  Evan,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"  You're  a  liar  !  "  He  stood  palpitating  after  this  out- 
break, unable  to  speak  a  word,  but,  throwing  himself  upon 
his  father's  breast  with  a  loud  cry,  he  hung  there,  and 
could  hardly  be  removed  without  violence. 

"I  think  you  are  mistook,  Bill,"  said  the  leader. 
"  Looks  like  it,"  answered  the  man  addressed.     "  I've 
been  took  that  laughing  way  myself  when  I  felt  a  sight 
more  like  crying." 

Rh^'s  rose  to  his  feet,  picked  uj")  his  fallen  bundle,  and 
set  out  for  the  bush  road  at  a  sturdy  pace.  The  three 
horsemen  went  jiugling  leisurely  after  him,  and  soon  dis- 
appeared from  sight.  None  of  the  widely  scattered  neigh- 
bors had  witnessed  this  strange  scene,  though  had  they 


47 


known  it  not  one  of  them  would  have  missed  such  a  break 
in  the  weary  monotony  of  life. 

Young  Evan  was  down  upon  his  face  again,  stilling  his 
sobs  to  listen  to  the  fading  noises  of  the  little  cavalcade. 
The  sounds  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  finally  died 
away. 


CHAPTER  V 

Rhys  tramped  on  sturdily  for  a  mile  or  thereabouts,  and 
then  stopped  short  so  abruptly  that  the  nearest  horseman 
almost  walked  him  down. 

"  It  wass  here,"  he  said,  turning,  "  here,  or  hereapouts." 

"  Now,  you've  been  warned  alread}-,"  said  the  spokes- 
man of  the  party.  "  If  you  like  to  give  a  slack  to  your 
jaw,  you  must,  and  it's  no  part  of  ray  duty  to  stop  you." 

"  Fery  well,"  said  Rhys,  '•  I  shall  tell  you  all  about  it." 
The  other,  surrendering  opposition,  struck  a  lucifer  match 
on  the  tightened  leg  of  his  cords,  lit  his  pipe,  and  listened 
with  a  motionless  countenance.  "  I  met  Penthearn,"  said 
Rhys,  "  at  the  slip-rail  in  the  big  paddock.  We  had  had  a 
goot  many  rows,  and  he  wass  ready  for  one  more.  I  Avass 
ankry  enough  to  do  him  a  mischief,  and  I  would  not  speak 
a  word.  The  more  I  would  not  speak,  the  more  he  wass  in 
a  rage.  That  pleased  me,  and  I  would  not  say  a  word. 
So  he  followed  me  to  about  here,  apusing  nie  all  the  way, 
and  then  he  struck  me  with  his  riting-stick.  Then,"  said 
Rhys,  with  no  sign  of  heat  or  excitement,  "  I  thrashed 
him  ass  long  ass  he  could  stand.  I  proke  the  stick  across 
his  body,  and  I  came  away." 

"  Is  that  all  you've  got  to  say  ? "  asked  the  mounted 
policeman. 

"  That  is  efery  thing,"  Rhys  responded. 

lie  moved  on  again  without  waiting  for  an  order,  but 
before  another  hundred  yards  had  been  traversed  one  of  the 
men  called  a  halt,  and  dismounted  hastily. 

"  This  looks  a  bit  like  it,"  he  said,  carefully  examining 

48 


49 


the  ground  about  liini.  "  There's  been  a  bit  of  a  turn  up 
here." 

Fifty  years  ago, — and  a  good  deal  more  or  less, — the 
belief  in  the  ability  of  the  aboriginal  native  to  read  "sign" 
amounted  to  a  superstition.  There  is  no  doubt  at  all  that 
a  great  many  of  the  black  fellows  were  very  clever  at  this 
sort  of  work,  and  until  the  white  man  learned  the  trick  a 
good  deal  of  their  work  looked  almost  miraculous.  To 
this  day  the  Austi'alian  police  employ  black  trackers  to 
follow  criminals  who  have  taken  to  tlie  wilderness,  though 
there  are  by  this  time  dozens  of  white  men  who  are  fully 
equal  to  any  black  fellow  that  ever  breathed.  This  man, 
by  name  Ned  Cooper,  was  one  of  them.  He  was  a  cur- 
rency lad,  born  in  the  bush,  and  bred  there.  He  had  spent 
two-thirds  of  his  life  among  the  aboriginals,  and  knew 
every  thing  they  could  teach  him.  He  had  as  quick  an  eye 
as  any  one  of  them,  and  a  keener  intelligence. 

He  stood  looking  downward  for  a  minute,  directing  his 
sharp  glance  here  and  there,  and  at  last  fixed  on  a  place  at 
the  edge  of  the  track,  and  there  knelt  down  to  see  things 
closer.     Then  he  rose  and  walked  into  the  bush. 

"  Track's  as  plain  as  blazes !  "  he  called,  when  he  had 
gone  poi'haps  twenty  yards. 

"Come  out  of  that,"  returned  the  leader.  "We've  no 
time  to  fool  about  here.  We  shall  have  a  good  three 
hours  in  the  dark  as  it  is." 

"  Wait  a  bit  !  "  bawled  the  tracker.  "  He's  foundering 
already,  staggering  about  like  a  drunken  man.  He  can't 
have  got  far  in  that  state." 

"  I  left  him  here,"  said  Evan  Rhys.  "  What  should  he 
want  to  go  into  the  push  for  ?  " 

"  One  man's  tracks  or  two  ?"  shouted  the  leader  of  the 
police  party. 

"  One,"  replied  the  tracker,  invisible  by  this  time,  and 
his  voice  muffled  by  the  intervening  trees. 


50 


"  Carrying  any  body  ?  "  cried  the  leader. 

"  No,"  said  the  otlier,  and  so  Avent  on  again. 

The  horses  pawed  the  road,  jingled  bit  and  curb-chain, 
and  snorted  now  and  then,  but  in  the  perfect  silence  which 
came  between  these  sounds  they  could  still  hear  the  crackle 
of  the  retreating  footsteps.  At  length,  and  the  time  of 
waiting  was  not  great,  a  long-drawn,  melancholy  sounding 
"Coo-ee  "  soared  from  the  bush.  The  leader  answered  the 
call,  and  it  was  repeated. 

"  He's  found  something,"  said  the  man  called  Bill. 
"  Wants  us  there,  I  fancy." 

"  You  wait  here,"  returned  his  senior,  "  and  take  care  of 
the  horses  and  this  chap.     I'll  have  a  look." 

He  dismounted  and  went  off  into  the  wooded  solitude, 
calling  for  guidance  now  and  then,  and  j^ursuing  the 
answering  voice.  Evan  Rhys  stood  like  a  statue,  with  his 
little  red  bundle  clasped  between  his  pinioned  hands  ;  the 
horseman,  with  an  unwavering  eye  ujjon  him,  sat  like  a 
statue,  and  the  two  waited.  In  a  while  the  tracker 
returned,  very  pale  and  quiet. 

"  I  want  you,"  he  said,  "  the  pair  of  you." 

He  drew"  the  bi-idles  over  the  horses'  lieads,  and,  passing 
the  reins  twice  or  thrice  about  a  fore-leg,  left  the  beasts 
standing  in  the  road,  and  walked  into  the  bush.  Evan 
Rhys  went  next,  and  tlie  remaining  policeman  brought  up 
the  rear.  A  walk  of  barel}^  two  minutes  brought  them  to 
the  place.  The  senior  of  the  trio  had  withdrawn  a  little 
apart,  and  was  smoking  violently,  but  a  dozen  yards  off  a 
ceaseless,  monotonous  buzz  of  wings  and  a  black  towering 
cloud  of  flies  showed  the  whereabouts  of  what  they  had 
come  to  seek.  The  tracker  took  Rh3's  b^^  the  sleeve  and 
led  him  forward. 

"  Tliere  j^ou  are,  mate}^,"  he  said.  "  No  fair  play  ever 
did  that,  3'ou  know." 

Rhys  looked  down  upon  what  was  left  of  liis  enemy. 


51 


His  olive  skin  paled,  but  he  gave  no  other  sign  of 
emotion. 

"  He  iss  dead  ?  "  he  said. 

"  There's  no  mistake  about  that,"  one  of  the  men 
answered  almost  brutally.  "  You'd  better  have  held  j^our 
jaw." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  trutli,"  said  Rh^'s.  "  I  flogged 
him,  but  that  iss  all  I  did." 

"You  can  keep  that  yarn  for  Manchester,"  the  man 
responded. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  senior,  addressing  the  tracker, 
"  you'd  better  ride  full  tilt  to  Merioneth  and  let  'em  know 
what  you've  found.  They'll  take  it  home.  I'll  go  on  as 
hard  as  I  can  split  to  Manchester,  and  get  the  doctor  to  ride 
over  and  look  at  the  body.  You  can  take  care  of  that  chap, 
Bill.     He  won't  want  more  than  one  to  look  after  liim." 

So  said,  so  arranged.  All  four  men  came  out  of  the 
bush  pale  and  quiet.  Two  mounted  at  once,  and  rode 
away,  and  Rhys  plodded  sullenly  along,  followed  by  his 
escort.  As  they  entered  the  big  paddock,  after  a  little 
more  than  half  an  hour's  walking,  the  horseman  saw  a 
body  of  men  hurrying  toward  him  from  the  station.  He 
distinguished  his  comrade  among  them,  and  as  the  men 
drew  nearer  he  saw  that  they  carried  poles  and  blankets 
with  which  to  make  a  litter  for  the  dead  man's  transport. 

The  two  parties  crossed  each  other  at  a  little  distance, 
and  Penthearn's  men  hooted  the  prisoner,  who  looked 
across  at  them  with  a  face  of  anger  and  disdain. 

Meantime  Evan  lay  face  downward  in  the  dust,  crying 
as  if  his  heart  would  break.  Nobody  came  near  him. 
Nobody  cared.     He  was  alone  in  the  world. 

His  father  was  the  only  living  creature  who  had  ever 
shown  him  a  sign  of  affection,  and,  since  love  is  sure  to 
beget   love   in    a   child's   heart,    his   father   was   the   one 


creature  for  whom  lie  cared.  His  motlier  may  liave  bad 
love  for  him  of  a  sort  ;  but  sbe  had  grown  bitter  of  tem- 
per, and  was  heavy-handed,  and  prone  to  avenge  herself 
for  any  trouble  she  might  encounter  by  passing  her  dis- 
comforts on  to  little  Evan.  And  now  his  father  had  gone 
away  to  prison,  and  there  was  no  kind  face  nor  kind  voice 
left  him  in  the  world. 

While  he  lay  thus  abandoned  to  sorrow,  he  beard  his 
mother's  voice  calling  to  him.  But  between  himself  and 
her  there  seemed  at  the  moment  to  be  nothing  in  common, 
and  he  made  no  answer.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  think 
that  they  suffered  the  same  grief.  He  could  not  conceive 
of  his  mother  as  a  sufferer,  but  only  as  an  inflicter  of 
suffering. 

She  called  again  ;  but  still  be  made  no  repl3%  and  he  did 
not  even  notice  the  mystery  and  urgenc}^  of  her  voice. 
She  came  near,  and  he  hardened  his  heart  for  more  injustice 
and  cruelty.  He  was  surprised  when  slie  laid  a  hand 
gently  upon  bis  shoulder,  and  strove  softly  by  her  touch  to 
persuade  him  to  rise. 

"  Evan,  darling,"  she  said,  more  gently  than  sbe  bad  ever 
spoken  to  him  before.     "Evan,  darling." 

He  had  been  lying  face  doAvnward,  with  his  closed  eye- 
lids pressed  bard  against  bis  arm.  The  hot  tears  bad 
forced  their  way,  and  his  eyes  were  red  and  swollen. 
When  he  lifted  bis  head,  the  sunlight  blinded  him,  and  he 
could  make  out  nothing.  But  bis  mother  saw  the  tear- 
scalded  face,  and  the  eyes  which  looked  dim  with  a  pain 
too  great  for  so  young  a  child  to  bear,  and  somehow  her 
bruised  heart  stirred  in  her  as  it  had  not  stirred  for  3'ears. 
She  sat  down  on  the  baked  earth  in  the  blazing  sunlight,  and 
took  him,  mother-like,  in  her  arms.  They  cried  together, 
and  she  rocked  him  as  though  be  were  a  baby  again. 

This  scene  made  so  strangely  vivid  an  impression  on  his 
mind  that  in  after  years  it  stood  like  a  wall,  or  rather  like 


53 


a  bower  of  beneficent  greenery,  between  him  and  tlie 
remembrance  of  his  arid  infancy.  When  he  came  to  man- 
hood, and  looked  back  upon  his  baby  days,  he  realized  little 
of  the  neglect,  and  remembered  hardly  any  thing  of  that 
atmosphere  of  blows  in  which  he  had  lived.  Had  things 
gone  on  in  the  old  way  with  him  and  his  mother,  had 
they  even  been  long  together  after  this  reconciliation  of 
their  hearts  in  sorrow,  they  would  have  quarrelled  anew, 
and  would  have  suffered  and  inflicted  injustice  as  of  old. 
But  this  was  not  to  be.  The  hard  hand  had  fallen  upon 
him  for  the  last  time,  and  his  mother's  voice  was  never 
again  to  address  him  except  in  accents  of  kindness  and  of 
heart-broken  farewell.  IsTeither  of  them  guessed  this,  but 
for  the  hour  their  reconciliation  was  complete. 

The  brawny,  strong-limbed  woman  rose  with  the  boy  in 
her  arms,  and  carried  him  to  the  house  as  if  he  had  been 
indeed  a  baby  again,  as  for  the  moment  her  sorrow  and 
pity  made  him  seem.  She  sat  down  with  him  on  the  bed, 
rocking  and  soothing  him.  This  was  all  new  to  Evan,  and 
for  a  time  he  cried  without  restraint,  being  more  moved 
by  affection  than  he  had  been  by  grief  and  the  loneliness 
of  his  own  heart. 

"  Evan,"  said  his  mother  at  length,  "  hold  your  whist, 
ray  dear,  do  'ee,  now,  do,  there's  a  darlin'  boy.  We  must 
do  wliat  we  can  to  help  your  poor  father.  Hush  your 
whist,  Evan,  and  tell  me,  now,  do  yew  think  you'd  know 
your  way  to  that  there  thing  in  the  coppice  ?  " 

She  was  English  bred,  and  could  never  bring  herself  to 
speak  of  the  Australian  forest  as  the  bush.  She  knew  but 
two  forms  of  congregated  trees,  coppice  and  spinney,  and 
she  chose  the  term  which  she  thought  the  larger. 

"  Yes,"  said  Evan,  sitting  up  in  her  lap,  and  looking  at 
her  strangely,  "  I  could  find  it.     Why  ?  " 

"Are  yew  sure,"  she  asked,  "  as  you  know  to  it  proper? 
Could  yew  take  me  there,  and  make  no  mistake?" 


54 


«  Yes,"  said  Evan  again.     "  Why  ?  " 

Slie  set  him  on  his  feet  with  an  air  of  complete,  quiet 
resohition.  Slie  wiped  her  eyes  with  a  corner  of  her  coarse 
apron,  as  if  tears  were  done  with,  and,  rising,  closed  the 
door.  Then,  returning,  she  knelt  down  by  Evan,  and  set 
a  hand  on  either  shoulder. 

"  If  they  finds  that  body,"  she  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
voice,  "they'll  liang  your  father.  We've  got  to  save  un, 
Evan,  and  if  you  can  guide  me  there,  we'll  do  it.  Yew  go 
and  get  the  pick  and  the  shovel." 

"  We'd  better  wait  till  niglit-time,"  said  Evan. 

"No,"  said  his  motlier,  "I  couldn't  abide  to  wait  a 
minute,  and  beside  that  us'd  have  to  carry  a  lantern,  and 
that  'ud  look  suspectious.  Nobody  'ull  notice  if  us  goes 
out  now.  And,  for  tlie  matter  o'  that,"  she  added,  after 
pausing  to  lift  the  curtain  and  to  peep  rapidly  about  the 
space  outside,  "  there's  nobody  about.  Come  along,  Evan. 
It's  a  ghashly  job,  an'  the  Lord  send  us  the  heart  to  get 
through  with  it." 

She  put  on  a  great  old-fashioned  sun-bonnet  by  way  of 
sole  preparation,  and  Evan,  without  a  word,  went  round  to 
the  back  of  the  pigsty,  where  he  found  a  battered  old 
shovel  and  a  mattock  with  a  broken  handle.  He  shouldered 
these,  and  set  off  for  tlie  bush  track  accompanied  by  his 
mother.  Each  looked  nervously  around,  but  their  going 
was  unobserved. 

Broad  daylight  as  it  was,  they  walked  in  terror.  They 
were  afraid  alike  of  observation  and  of  the  task  Avhich  lay 
before  them,  but  they  went  on  sturdily,  and  in  silence, 
until  they  reached  the  track  made  by  the  boy's  own  foot- 
steps. Here  Evan  took  the  lead,  and  they  plunged  almost 
at  once  from  blazing  light  into  deep  shadow.  The  very 
undergrowth  of  the  monstrous  bush  was  thirty  feet  over- 
head, and  tlie  air  felt  muffled  and  confined.  A  black  snake 
crossed  the  track,  and  the  woman,  stooping  with  a  harsh 


55 


shriek,  gathered  lier  skirts  about  her  ankles,  and  stood 
trembling.  The  reptile  glided  on  harmless,  and  in  a  while 
she  found  courage  to  go  on  again. 

The  whirling  pillar  of  black  flies  rose  with  a  startling 
suddenness  as  they  came  upon  the  object  of  their  search. 
The  woman  screamed  again,  but  Evan  said  gravely,  and  in 
the  voice  of  every  day  : 

"  Here  it  is." 

They  looked  down  on  the  recumbent  figure,  scarcely 
recognizable  for  what  it  was,  loathsome  and  distended. 
Within  a  very  little  distance  of  where  it  lay, — a  yard  or  two 
only, — was  a  patch  of  sand,  and  on  this  they  set  to  work. 
A  few  inches  below  the  surface  they  came  upon  a  thick 
tangle  of  roots,  but  they  labored  with  all  their  might, 
scarcely  pausing  to  take  breath,  and  barely  conscious  of 
the  sweat  which  poured  from  their  brows  like  rain.  They 
made  slow  progress  in  spite  of  all  their  labor.  The  air  was 
a  poison.  The  startled  flies  buzzed  round  them  in  myriads, 
and  settled  in  the  panting  nostrils,  on  the  parted  lips,  and 
assailed  eyes  and  ears  with  constant  irritation.  They 
brought  with  them  a  sense  of  unconquerable  loathing,  but 
the  pair  worked  on,  digging,  as  each  thought  in  ignorance, 
for  the  salvation  of  a  husband  and  a  father. 

"  Move  together,  boys  !  "  said  a  clear,  loud  voice,  and  the 
two  laborers  started  upright.  From  every  side  of  them,  as 
it  appeared,  came  the  sound  of  a  foot-tread  from  the  under- 
growth, and  in  a  minute  or  less  they  were  surrounded  by 
half  a  dozen  sturdy  fellows.  Among  them  was  Cooper,  the 
tracker.  He  had  guided  the  party  to  the  spot,  and,  hearing 
strange  and  unexpected  noises  as  he  drew  close  to  it,  had 
withdrawn  a  little,  and  had  distributed  his  men  in  a  circle, 
prepared  to  converge  at  the  word  of  command  toward  a 
centre. 

"  That's  Mr.  Penthearn's  body,"  said  Cooper.  "  Some  of 
you  chaps  can  see  to  it.     One  of  you  can  give  me  a  hand 


56 


here.  I  shall  have  to  trouble  you  to  come  along  with  me, 
missis,  and  you,  too,  youngster.  You're  Mrs.  Rhys,  I 
reckon  ?  "  The  woman  looked  at  him  like  one  fascinated, 
and  breathed  heavily.  She  made  no  answer,  but  he  nodded, 
and  said  :  "  I  thought  so.  The  whole  family's  in  it,  seem- 
in'ly.  Here,  let's  get  out  of  this — it's  enough  to  poison  the 
very  flies.  You  take  charge  of  the  kid.  Now,  missis,  I 
must  trouble  j^ou  to  come  with  me." 

One  of  the  late  Mr.  Penthearn's  casual  hands  took  Evan 
by  the  collar,  and  marched  him  out  of  the  wood.  Tlie 
woman  obeyed  the  motion  of  the  tracker's  hand,  and  fol- 
lowed him,  Avalking  like  one  in  a  dream. 

"  We  can't  march  tliis  pair  to  Manchester,"  said  Cooper, 
addressing  the  man  in  front.  "  One  of  you  fellows  will 
have  to  ride  up  there,  and  bring  down  a  buggy." 

Neither  of  the  prisoners  spoke  a  word.  The  man  Avho 
had  charge  of  J'oung  Evan  relaxed  his  hold  upon  his  collar 
as  soon  as  the  track  was  reached.  The  boy  made  his  way 
to  his  mother's  side,  and  stole  a  hand  into  hers.  The 
mounted  policeman  lolled  idly  along  in  the  saddle,  smok- 
ing, and  the  unmounted  man  begged  a  fill  of  tobacco  and 
a  light  from  him.  'J^lie  station  came  in  sight,  and  after 
a  weary  march  was  reached.  Mrs.  Rhys  and  the  bo}'  were 
locked  away  in  an  outhouse,  safely  secured  on  the  outside. 
They  waited  there  a  long,  long  while,  with  nothing  to  say 
to  each  other,  and  too  cruslied  by  the  turn  affairs  had 
taken  even  to  think  consecutively.  They  lieard  the  dread- 
ful burden  they  had  attempted  to  bury  borne  home  by 
men  who  staggered  with  fatigue. 

"  That  job's  worth  a  glass  of  beer,  anyhow  !  "  said  a 
voice  outside,  and  another  answered  : 

"Beer  be  blowed  !  I  want  a  bottle  of  forty-rod  to 
drown  the  flavor." 

The  men  moved  away,  laughing  and  talking  among 
themselves,  and  once  more  the  two  were  left  in  a  waiting 


57 


silence.  It  was  growing  dark  when  the  wheels  of  a  buggy 
came  rolling  along  the  pebbled  roadway  which  had  been 
laid  down  in  front  of  the  station.  The  folding  doors  of 
the  barn  were  unlocked,  and  a  man  appeared  carrying 
a  tin  dish  and  a  jug  of  beer. 

"  You're  not  to  be  starved,"  he  said  roughly,  and  set 
the  provisions  on  the  floor  of  beaten  earth  between  them. 
Neither  had  the  heart  to  eat,  though  the  mess  in  the 
pannikin  smelled  savory  enough  to  have  tempted  appetite 
under  ordinary  conditions  ;  but  they  both  drank  heartily, 
and  young  Evan  was  soon  sleepy  with  the  unaccustomed 
draught.  Cooper  lounged  in,  pipe  in  mouth,  to  take  a 
look  at  his  charges. 

"  It's  fifteen  miles  to  Manchester,"  he  said,  "and  if  you 
mean  to  make  a  meal  at  all,  you'd  better  be  quick  about 
it.  We're  just  waiting  for  a  change  of  horses,  and  then 
we're  off." 

Neither  of  them  answered,  and  he  went  on  with  a  sort 
of  rough  commiseration  in  his  tone  : 

"That  was  a  foolish  kind  of  thing  to  do,  missis,  if  you'd 
only  known  it.  I  don't  say  as  it  wasn't  natural,  but,  you 
see,  it  let  you  in  as  well.  Makes  you  accessory  after  the 
fact,  don't  you  see." 

The  woman  neither  understood  nor  cared.  She  had 
done  what  she  could,  and  had  failed.  If  she  had  as  yet 
any  feeling  at  all,  she  was  not  ill  content  to  be  taken  in 
a  common  condemnation  with  her  husband.  She  woke 
to  one  moment  of  emotion. 

"They  can't  hurt  the  child,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  the  kid,"  said  the  officer.  "No,  I  shouldn't  think 
they'd  hurt  him.  I  shouldn't,  any  way.  He's  too  j'oung 
to  be  responsible." 

She  made  the  best  of  this  crumb  of  comfort. 

The  yellow,  mournful  twilight  was  everywhere,  flood- 
ing the  sky  north  and   east  and  south  and  west,  wlien  the 


58 


buggy,  driven  by  an  officer  in  tlie  same  informal  uniform 
as  his  fellows,  drew  up  at  the  barn-door.  The  two  took 
their  places,  Coojier  whistled  for  his  horse  and  threw^  his 
leg  leisurely  over  the  saddle,  and  they  set  out  in  the 
gathering  night.  On  these  free  uplands  the  air  grew  cool 
after  sunset.  The  man  in  charge  of  the  buggy  drove  fast, 
and  the  passage  of  the  vehicle  made  a  refreshing  breeze. 
The  wheels  were  almost  soundless  on  the  grass,  and  the 
vast,  unbroken  prairie  faded  and  faded,  contracted  and 
contracted,  until  the  brief  twilight  failed,  and  night  rushed 
down.  Then  they  whiled  on  through  the  dark,  the 
trooper  jingling  along  behind,  gliost-like,  his  face  in 
alternate  red  glow  and  shadow  as  he  pulled  away  at  his 
pipe.  Then  the  moon  got  up,  and  cut  every  thing  into 
clean  light  and  shadow,  and  still  they  bowled  along. 

On  a  sudden  the  dim  thud  of  the  horse's  feet  and  the 
noiseless  spin  of  the  wheels  changed  to  a  startling  clatter, 
and  there  were  houses  on  either  side.  Another  hundred 
yards,  and  the  journey  was  over. 

A  man  in  uniform  trousers  and  a  flannel  shirt  stood  in 
the  door-way  under  a  swinging  oil  lamp.  He  received  the 
party  with  oaths  and  grumblings,  having,  as  it  appeared, 
been  kept  away  from  some  social  engagement  in  order 
to  receive  the  prisoners  and  enter  the  charge  against 
them.  The  formality  was  speedily  gone  through,  and 
Evan  and  his  mother  stood  hand  in  hand,  looking  on 
and  listening  with  no  very  intelligent  apprehension.  An 
officer  tapped  the  woman  on  the  shoulder. 

"This  wa}'',  missis,"  She  moved  meclianicallj'',  still 
liolding  Evan  by  the  hand,  "No,"  said  the  man.  "The 
kid  goes  this  way," 

"  You  ain't  going  to  part  me  and  the  child  ?"  she  said. 

"That's  your  side,"  the  man  answered,  "  this  is  his." 


CHAPTER  VI 

Someone  took  young  Evan  by  the  hand  and  led  him, 
not  unkindly,  into  another  apartment.  This  chamber  was 
furnislied,  or  unfurnislied,  something  after  the  manner  of 
a  military  guardroom,  that  is  to  say  that  some  three 
parts  of  its  space  were  filled  up  by  a  great  sloping  plank 
bed  with  a  wooden  pillow.  From  the  ceiling  hung  a  sickly 
oil  lamp,  the  flame  of  which  rendered  darkjiess  barely 
visible,  while  its  acrid  and  unpleasing  odor  made  the  air 
heavy.  A  solitary  figure  lay  stretched  on  the  plank  bed, 
and  a  movement  only  just  percejitible  showed  that  Evan's 
fellow-prisoner  was  awake. 

"  You  needn't  cry,  my  little  man,"  said  Evan's  guard. 
"  You've  got  your  father  to  take  care  of  you,"  and  at  this 
the  recumbent  figure  sat  up  suddenly. 

"  Efan  ! "  cried  the  father,  in  a  tone  of  wild  surprise. 
"  What  prings  you  here  ?  " 

"  Him  and  his  mother,"  said  the  guard,  "  was  found 
digging  a  hole  for  Mr.  Penthearn's  botly.  That's  wliat 
he's  here  for." 

The  man  retired,  closing  the  heavy  door  behind  him, 
and  the  two  Rhys's,  father  and  son,  heard  tlie  grinding 
of  solid  and  ill-fitting  bolts  before  the  man's  footsteps 
retired.  The  boy  was  crying  bitterly  at  the  sight  of  his 
father  here  a  prisoner.  Rliys  took  him  in  his  arms  and 
lay  down  again,  pillowing  his  head  upon  his  shoulder. 
He  said  nothing,  and  after  a  long  while  young  Evan, 
exhausted  by  his  own  grief,  fell  asleep. 

In  the  morning  came  questionings,  and  Rhys  learned  by 
what  accident  the  body  had  been  discovered,  and  by  what 

59 


60 


a  fatal  desire  to  serve  bim  his  wife  had  been  led  into  her 
present  grave  position. 

"She  meant  well,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "but  she 
has  put  the  rope  round  my  neck,  all  the  same," 

The  three  prisoners  were  brought  before  the  resident 
magistrate  that  morning,  and  after  formal  evidence  were 
remanded  for  a  week.  The  Australian  summer  daj's 
burned  slowly  one  after  the  other,  and  the  two  for  the  most 
part  lay  sprawling  on  the  comfortless  plank  bed  in  complete 
languor  of  mind  and  body.  But  now  and  then  Rhys 
talked  with  extreme  gravity,  teaching  the  boy  what  little 
he  knew  in  his  own  darkened  mind  of  the  polity  of  the 
great  world.  It  was  perhaps  a  good  deal  of  a  pity  that  a 
child  should  get  such  lessons  as  were  there  taught  him. 
It  was  certainly  a  pity  that  such  lessons  should  have  been 
offered  with  so  much  authority  and  in  such  a  place,  for 
they  were  bitten  into  the  young  soul  as  if  b}'^  the  action  of 
some  corrosive  acid,  and  so  long  as  he  lived  he  was  bound 
to  bear  their  scars  inwardly,  to  carrj^  them  about  with  him 
like  a  message  written  in  tears  and  fire  and  terror,  legible 
and  authentic  to  the  limit  of  his  days,  ineradicable,  inefface- 
able, never  to  be  foi'gotten  for  an  hour.  There  was  a 
prodigious  amount  of  nonsense  in  this  unfortunate  teach- 
ing, but  the  mischief  of  it  was  that  the  nonsense  had  the 
sturdiest  support  from  facts  which  were  known  familiarly 
both  to  pupil  and  teacher,  and  that  thousands  of  otlier  facts 
which  should  have  gone  to  modify  certainty  were  unknown 
to  both. 

"  Wlien  your  grantfather  wass  in  Merionethshire,"  said 
Evan  Rhys  the  elder,  "he  was  a  tenant  of  Squire  Penth- 
earn's  father.  lie  hat  a  little  pit  of  land  which  hat  been 
saved  from  the  Avaste,  Gott  knows  when.  Tliere  wass 
nobody  so  old  as  could  toll  him  wlien  it  liat  not  been  farm- 
land. Squire  Penthearn  wass  tlie  lord  of  the  manor.  Your 
grantfather  hat  no  little  piece  of  paper  to  show  that  he 


61 


had  a  right  to  the  land,  and  the  squire  took  it  all.  Your 
grantfather,  and  his  grantfatlier,  and  his  grantfatlier 
again,  had  made  the  land.  Thay  had  worked  perhaps  for 
hundreds  of  years  to  make  it.  The  squire  wanted  it,  and 
he  took  it.  Your  grantfatlier  was  turned  away,  and  got 
nothing  whatever.  Tliey  saidt  it  was  the  law.  Fery  well, 
my  little  Efan,  it  iss  the  law  that  all  good  people  have  to 
fight  against.  When  the  rich  man  shows  a  poor  man  a 
law,  he  shows  him  something  that  he  has  to  fight,  to  worry 
with  teeth  and  nails.  You  are  quite  safe,  my  little  Efan  ; 
they  will  do  nothing  to  you,  pecause  you  are  too  younk  ; 
but  when  your  father  hass  been  hanked  by  the  neck,  and 
jj^our  mother  hass  been  imprisoned  for  life,  you  will 
rememper." 

The  children  of  the  very  poor  are  precocious.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  world  which  can  give  so  early  an  edge  to 
intellect  as  poverty.  Look  at  any  great  city,  and  observe 
the  prematurely  mannish  childhood  of  the  poor.  Tiiere 
are  children  in  London,  in  New  York,  in  Paris,  in  Vienna, 
in  all  great  cities,  Avho  face  the  world  with  many  devices 
of  strategy,  who  contrive  somehow  to  squeeze  the  water 
of  life  from  the  almost  dry  sponge  of  street  charit}'  and 
petty  enterprises  contrived  without  capital.  The  childien 
of  the  rich  would  die,  in  spite  of  more  delicate  wit  and  a 
finer  training,  where  these  waifs  of  fortune  flourish. 

Young  Evan  was  quick  to  absorb  all  his  father's  lessons, 
and  nothing  was  too  wrong-headed  for  acceptance.  How 
should  it  have  been  so?  Tliere  was  not  a  fact  in  his  own 
little  experience  of  life  which  did  not  corroborate  his 
father's  theories. 

"Suppose,"  said  Rhys,  "that  efery  tay  of  j^our  life  you 
robbed  a  pig  of  his  cabbage-stalk,  or  you  stole  a  saucer  of 
milk  from  a  puppy — would  you  expect  the  pig  or  the 
puppy  to  be  thankful  ?  And  we  are  not  pigs  or  puppies,  nn^ 
little  Efan,  we  are  men  and  women,  and  they  rob  us  every 


62 


day,  and  they  expect  us  to  co  with  our  caps  in  our  liands, 
and  to  say  tliat  we  are  fery  mucli  opliged  for  peing  allowed 
to  live  at  all." 

Once,  and  once  only,  he  talked  of  the  charge  which  was 
to  be  brought  against  him. 

"  I  nefer  meant  the  man  any  mischief,"  he  declared. 
"  When  I  wass  a  little  bo}^  in  Merionethshire,  I  peat  him, 
as  you  have  peaten  his  little  boy.  When  he  krew  up,  he 
remempered,  and  he  Avass  always  fer}'^  angry.  He  came 
after  me  threatening  what  he  would  do,  and  I  knew  it 
wass  the  safest  way  to  make  him  angry  to  say  nothing. 
I  said  nothing  for  two  miles,  and  he  followed  me,  and  I 
did  not  care  until  he  raised  his  riding-whip.  Then  I  took 
it  fi'om  him.  I  do  not  know  why  he  iss  dead,  but  I  flogged 
him,  and  if  he  could  die  of  a  flogging  he  is  welcome  to  die. 
And  so  am  I  welcome  to  die,"  he  added,  with  a  certain 
gloomy  stoicism,  "  and  to  not  you  forget  it.  If  I  did  not 
leaf  my  little  jjoy  in  the  cold,  I  should  not  care  at  all.  I 
am  very  tired,  my  little  Efan,  and  I  am  quite  reatj'  to  go 
whenefer." 

The  upshot  of  all  the  lessons  learned  was  that  every 
rich  man  was  a  rogue,  and  that  every  poor  man  was  more 
or  less  a  martyr,  bound  to  rebellion.  That  the  king  was 
per  se  a  knave  was  beyond  dispute.  That  whole  genera- 
tions of  one  family  of  lords  might  be  losels  and  Avastrels, 
prodigal  alike  in  plenty  and  in  bankriiptc\%  Evan  Rhj's 
the  elder  unhappily  knew^  by  local  tradition  and  the  surety 
of  his  own  eyes  ;  and  that  all  families  holding  the  patent 
of  nobility  should  be  equally  worthy  of  contempt  and 
blame  seemed  an  easy  conclusion  to  arrive  at  both  for 
him  and  his  pupil.  Everj'-where  the  story  repeated  itself. 
The  worker  enriched  the  waste  earth  with  his  sweat,  and 
fed  its  verdure  at  last  in  the  decay  of  his  body,  and 
whosoever  had  money  had  it  first  or  last  by  trickery  or 
tyranny. 


63 


The  gloomy  little  room  in  which  these  lessons  were 
taught  became  to  the  boy  a  temple  of  intellectual  freedom. 
The  plank  bed  was  an  altar  of  revolt,  and  on  it  already  lay 
the  immolated  figure  of  a  father,  at  once  a  victim  and  a 
protest,  a  prey  to  social  tyranny  and  a  proclamation 
against  it.  At  the  next  formal  enquiry  father  and  mother 
and  child  were  alike  committed  for  trial,  but  when  the 
case  was  ready  to  come  on  for  hearing  before  the  higher 
court,  the  grand  jury  thought  it  absurd  to  bring  so  grave 
a  charge  against  so  young  a  child,  and,  although  a  true  bill 
was  found  against  Evan  Rhys  the  elder  and  his  wife,  Helen, 
the  boy  was  set  at  liberty.  This,  in  its  way,  was  a  blow, 
for  it  left  him  alone  in  the  world.  He  would  not  leave 
the  prison  in  which  his  father  was  confined  in  the  strange 
new  town  to  which  the}''  had  been  carried  until  force  was 
employed.  He  was  borne  out  in  the  arms  of  a  warder,  and 
set  down  in  the  street  outside  the  jail.  He  cried  so  pite- 
ously  at  leaving  his  father,  and  at  the  sense  of  his  own  lone- 
liness, that  the  warder  gave  him  the  only  half-crown  he 
had  in  the  world,  and  so  sent  him  about  his  business. 
Under  conditions  entirely  civilized  it  would  have  been 
made  somebody's  concern  to  see  the  child  home,  but  the 
district  was  but  newly  and  sparsely  settled,  and  tlie  admin- 
istration of  justice  had  not  yet  fallen  into  the  groove  in 
which  it  runs  in  older  countries. 

Two  or  three  people  staring  at  young  Evan  in  "the  street 
made  him  ashamed  of  his  open  outburst  of  grief.  He  con- 
trolled himself  as  best  he  might,  and  walked  awaj'',  intent 
on  notliing  for  the  moment  so  much  as  to  hide  himself. 
But,  coming  in  a  while  upon  the  desert  outskirts  of  the 
town,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  grouTid  in  complete  sur- 
render. The  mere  fact  of  yielding  to  his  own  grief  bred  a 
sort  of  hysteria,  and  a  stranger  passing  that  way  was 
moved  to  astonishment  and  pity. 

This  stranger  was  a  remarkable  man   in  his  wa}- — the 


64 


Marquess  of  Avelcburch,  son  of  tlie  Duke  of  Kingsclere, 
a  young  man  of  great  wealth  and  enormous  expectation. 
He  had  taken  his  degree  at  Oxford  five  years  before,  and 
liad  since  tlien  occupied  himself  in  travel  and  tlie  study  of 
mankind.  He  was  a  young  man  of  supernatural  gravity 
and  solemnity  of  demeanor,  a  circumstance  mainly  due  to 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  bred  to  as  heavy  a  sense  of 
responsibility  as  if  he  had  been  a  prince  of  the  blood. 
Tlie  fact  that  he  was  the  Marquess  of  Avelchurch,  heir  to 
the  dukedom  of  Kingsclere  and  a  colossal  fortune,  had 
never  been  allowed  for  one  moment  to  be  absent  fi-om  this 
unhappy  3'oung  gentleman's  mind.  He  was  b}"  nature  a 
most  lovable  and  high-spirited  fellow,  full  of  warm-blooded 
impulses  and  enthusiasms,  and  his  childish  dream,  when  he 
first  became  aware  of  the  vast  wealth  which  would  one 
day  be  his  own,  had  been  to  ride  abroad  distributing 
largesse  to  the  poor.  In  his  youth  he  would  empty  his 
purse  at  any  moment  in  answer  to  a  piteous  tale,  and  he 
had  been  the  prey  of  cads  and  cadgers  past  the  computa- 
tion of  arithmetic.  But  when  a  lad  so  circumstanced  has 
able  tutors  near  him,  when  his  study  table  is  thickly 
littered  at  every  post  with  begging  letters,  and  when  he 
has  been  compelled  to  enquire  personally  into  some  hun- 
dreds of  cases,  he  grows  hardened.  The  young  Marquess 
of  Avelchurch  had  learned  years  ago  that  his  money  was 
as  likely  to  do  a  mischief  to  the  people  on  whom  he 
bestowed  it  as  a  benefit.  He  had  been  taught  to  dread,  as 
a  terroreven  greater  than  the  pinch  of  poverty,  the  pauper- 
ization of  the  poor.  He  had  been  tauglit, — and  he  was  of  a 
nature  to  learn  tlie  lesson  easily, — that  his  social  position 
and  his  wealth  laid  tremendous  responsibilities  upon  him. 
He  held  social  position  and  wealth  alike  as  a  trust  from 
God.  He  was  an  old-fashioned  young  man,  and  believed 
in  God.  The  agnosticisms  of  modern  Oxford  had  slid 
from  him  like  water  from  a  duck's  back,  and  the  old-fash- 


65 


ioned  defenders  of  an  old-fashioned  faith  found  an  enthu- 
siastic disciple  in  the  Marquess  of  Avelchurch.  The  onh^ 
touch  of  modernity  about  the  young  man  was  to  be  found 
in  the  form  and  method  of  his  hereditary  Toryism.  The 
old  Toryism,  though  Lord  Goodheart  and  Lady  Bountiful 
tempered  it  by  innumerable  kindnesses,  was  scornful,  held 
its  head  high,  and  rejoiced  in  the  divisions  which  Provi- 
dence had  established  among  the  races  of  men.  The 
modern  Toryism,  as  the  Marquess  of  Avelchurch  under- 
stood it,  regretted  the  social  partitions,  and  was  yet  bound 
to  preserve  tliem  as  part  of  a  scheme  with  which  it  would 
be  sinful  to  interfere.  High-minded,  honorable,  generous, 
and  so  over-conscientious  in  giving  and  in  refraining  from 
giving  that  his  life  was  an  hourly  burden  to  him,  the 
young  man  had  spent  this  last  five  years  in  travelling  the 
world,  and  accustoming  himself  to  think  more  and  more 
basely  and  despairingly  of  it.  He  dragged  at  each  remove 
a  lengthening  chain.  The  sense  of  responsibility  grew 
like  a  snowball.  To  refuse  charity  was  an  insult  to  his 
heart  ;  to  bestow  it  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred 
seemed  a  crime.  What,  in  these  mournful  circumstances, 
was  a  young  man  to  do  ? 

Young  Evan  lay  writhing  there,  in  the  sparse  verdure  of 
a  waste  field,  like  a  worm  that  has  been  trodden  upon. 
Childhood  is  keen  to  suffer — few  j^eople  ever  care  to  think 
how  keen.  And  surely  here,  if  ever  in  the  world,  a  child 
had  a  right  to  be  down-hearted.  His  father  was  going  to 
the  gallows,  and  his  mother  to  penal  servitude,  and  he,  so 
far  as  he  knew,  had  not  a  friend  in  the  world.  He  was 
full,  too,  of  that  gall  of  bitterness  which  his  father  had  of 
late  days  poured  into  him  with  so  unsparing  a  hand.  A 
child  of  eight  despaired  and  loathed  the  world  ! 

The  Marquess  of  Avelchurch  looked  down  on  the 
writhing  little  body,  and  heard  the  sobs  which  seemed  torn 
by  the  roots  from  the  child's  heart.  By  and  by  he  stooped, 
5 


66 


and  laid  a  hand  upon  young  Evan's  shoulder.  The  boy- 
looked  up,  savage  in  the  desolation  of  his  misery.  His 
desert  was  sacred  to  him.     He  had  a  right  to  his  solitude. 

"Go  away  !  "  he  snarled. 

The  marquess  sat  down  beside  him,  and,  let  young  Evan 
writhe  as  he  would,  he  kept  a  firm  yet  gentle  hand  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"  It  can't  be  as  bad  as  that,  my  lad,"  he  said. 

Evan  ceased  to  cr}^,  though  the  effort  cost  him  dear. 
Every  now  and  again  a  great  shivering  sob  shook  him 
from  head  to  foot,  but  otherwise  he  lay  quiet.  He  even 
ceased  to  resist  the  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  but  he  resented 
it  with  a  passionate  sullenness  of  Avhich  the  intending  com- 
forter had  not  the  faintest  conception. 

"Let  me  help  you,  my  boy,"  said  the  marquess,  kindly 
and  gently  enough,  and  yet  with  something  in  the  tone 
which  angered  where  it  Avas  meant  to  soothe.  "  What 
brings  you  in  such  trouble  ?  Tell  me  what  is  the  matter, 
and  if  I  can  help  you  I  will." 

The  unfortunate  young  nobleman  was  always  offering 
a  sop  to  conscience.  He  was  willing  to  help  young  Evan 
if  he  could,  but  if  he  could,  meant  if  the  case  were  deserv- 
ing. To  be  conscientious]}^  assisted  by  the  Marquess  of 
Avelchurch  meant  that  3'ou  should  have  got  into  trouble 
absolutel}^  without  any  fault  of  your  own.  The  way  of 
the  transgi'essor  was  hard,  and,  though  his  good  heart 
checked  him  painfully  many  a  time,  he  solemnly  felt  it  his 
duty  to  make  it  harder.  In  point  of  fact,  what  would 
have  been  his  vice  would  have  been  virtue  to  ninety-nine 
men  in  a  hundred.  Had  he  done  throughout  his  life  the 
things  which  would  have  pleased  him,  he  would  have  been 
universally  beloved.  As  it  was,  he  was  almost  univer- 
sally respected,  but  by  some  regarded  as  a  prig  of  the  first 
water. 

Young  Evan  made  no  answer  to  all  this  pleading,  but  lay 


67 


there  in  a  stubborn  silence,  affronted  at  the  intrusion  on  bis 
grief. 

Steps  sounded  on  the  rough  gravel  of  the  pathway,  and 
the  Marquess  of  Avelchurch,  more  than  half  ashamed  on 
the  better  and  more  tender  side  of  him,  of  being  caught  in 
the  act  of  comforting  this  ragged  urchin,  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Quoi  done  ?  "  said  a  cheery  voice.     *'  Toi  ?  " 

The  Comte  de  Montmeillard,  in  shabby  serge  trousers, 
a  shabby  jacket  of  the  same  material,  and  collarless  Crimean 
shirt,  was  holding  out  a  hand  to  him. 

"  You  are  here  I  "  cried  the  count,  "  in  Australia  of  all 
places  in  the  world.  Here,  my  friend,  you  will  find  plenty 
of  food  for  your  philosophies." 

"  The  Comte  de  Montmeillard  ?  "  said  the  marquess. 

"The  Comte  de  Montmeillard,  mj'  dear  friend,  at  your 
service.  The  Comte  de  Montmeillard — no  longer  the 
most  illustrious  of  boulevardiers,  but,  as  you  behold  him, 
an  exile,  my  friend — an  exile  in  the  cause  of  that  divine 
conscience  which  used  to  be  so  precious  to  you.  Is  it  still 
so  precious  as  it  used  to  be,  the  divine  conscience  ?  For 
my  own,  I  have  given  him  the  bridle-rein,  and  he  has  run 
me  here,  but  I  will  sell  him  to  any  body  who  has  need 
of  him  for  a  passage  home  and  one  little  supper  chez 
Bignon." 

"  I  thought,"  said  the  marquess,  "  I  understood " 

"  Ah  !"  cried  the  count,  "3-ou  supposed  that  I  was  in 
the  New  Caledonia — that  Caledonia  stern  and  wild,  fit 
nurse  for  a  rebellious  child  !  I  am  here,  my  dear  Avel- 
church, what  they  call  an  escape.  The  word  is  an  insult 
to  my  native  tongue,  but  I  accept  it." 

"  Have  you  no  friends  here  ? "  asked  the  marquess. 
"  No — no  resources  ?  " 

"  I  grow  a  little  garden,"  the  count  responded  gaj'ly. 
"  I  sometimes  sell  a  little  garden  produce.  I  feed  my 
pigs.     Eh,   Petrovna  ?  " 


The  marquess  for  the  first  time  became  aware  of  a 
fourth  figure  on  the  scene,  the  figure  of  a  sliabby  man 
witli  a  pug  nose  and  a  great  beard. 

"I  feed  my  pigs,"  cried  the  count.  "  I  kill  my  pigs,  I 
salt  my  pigs  into  liams  and  bacon,  and  therewith  I  buy 
my  bread.  I  am  a  protest  in  favor  of  that  aristocratic 
principle  of  which  you  are  yourself  so  distinguislied  a 
pillar.  But  what  is  this,  Petrovna?  Here  is  our  little 
Evan,  for  whom  all  day  we  have  been  enquiring  every- 
where." 

lie  sat  down  with  a  vivid  action  on  the  grass,  picked  up 
the  bo3',  and  took  him  in  his  arms.  Petrovna  knelt  beside 
him,  and  put  one  arm  about  the  child's  shoulder. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  the  marquess,  "that  the  little  fellow 
has  found  his  friends." 

"  He  is  in  need  of  them,"  said  the  count. 

"If  I  could    be  of  service "  said    the    Marquess  of 

Avelchurch.  His  hand  moved  irresolutely  toward  his 
pocket-book. 

"To  the  hoj  without  doubt,"  the  count  responded. 
"To  me,  my  dear  fellow,  no.  Take  him,  Petrovna,"  he 
added,  handing  over  little  Evan  to  his  associate  with 
scant  ceremony.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  taking  the 
marquess  familiarly  by  the  elbow,  led  him  to  a  little  dis- 
tance.    "You  have  been  long  in  the  town  here?  " 

"  Three  or  four  days  only,"  tlie  other  answered. 

"At  least,"  said  Montmeillard,  "  3'ou  will  have  heard 
the  news.  That  wretched  little  fellow  there  is  the  son 
of  the  man  who  is  charged  with  the  murder  of  Mr.  Penth- 
earn  at  Koollala.  In  a  month  or  thereabouts  the  law  will 
make  an  orphan  of  him.  He  is  a  briglit  boy,  and  full  of 
promise.     I  would  give  the  little  devil  n  chance  if  I  could." 

"Come  and  see  me  at  my  hotel,"  said  the  marquess — 

"  the  Belleville.     Ask "     He  blushed  a  little  here,  and 

hung  fire  for  a  mere  instant.     "Ask  for  Mr.  Johnstone." 


69 


"  Olio  !  "  said  the  count,  "  we  travel  incognito  ?" 

"  It  saves  a  great  deal  of  trouble,"  the  marquess 
answered.  "  But,  excuse  me,  who  is  that  fellow  with 
you  ?     You   called   him " 

"Ah,"  responded  Montmeillard.  "  He  is  not  a  pillar  of 
order  and  respectability.  That  is  Boris  Petrovna,  lately 
of  Siberia.     Shall  I  introduce  him  to  Mr.  Johnstone?" 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  marquess  dryly.  "  Come  to 
me  at  the  Belleville.  Let  us  have  a  talk  together.  Will 
you  dine  witli  me  to-night?" 

"In  this  garb?"  said  the  count,  stretching  his  arms 
abroad,  and  flashing  his  white  teeth  in  a  smile. 

"  Why  not  ?     Come  in  any  dress  you  like." 

"Very  well,"  the  count  answered  cheerfully.  "I  will 
come  in  the  only  one  I  have.     The  Belleville,  you  say  ?  " 

"The  Belleville.     If  I  can  be  of  use — I  mean,  if  I  have 

a  right  to  be  of  use "     He  looked  toward  Evan,  whom 

Petrovna  was  rocking  to  and  fro  in  his  arms. 

"  The  boy,"  said  the  count,  "  is  friendless  and  penniless. 
They  will  hang  his  father  to  a  certaintj^,  and  they  will 
hang  a  good  fellow,  for  whom  I  have  a  sincere  respect-. 
They  will  lock  up  his  motlier  for  ten  or  twelve  years  at 
least.  I  would  have  taken  him  home  with  me,  but  I 
am  a  broken  reed  for  any  body  to  rest  on.  Poor  old 
Petrovna  and  I  can  just  hold  body  and  soul  together, 
and  that  is  all.     I  am  sorr}'^  for  the  child." 

"  Is  this  the  boy,"  the  marquess  asked,  "  who  was  found 
with  his  mother  in  the  act  of  attemjDting  to  bury  the  body 
of  the  murdered  man  ?  " 

"That  is  the  child,"  Montmeillard  answered. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Englishman,  after  an  undecided  pause, 
"come  and  dine  with  me  to-night,  and  we  can  talk  it  over. 
Perhaps  you  might  let  me  do  something  for  you  also." 

"Forme?"  cried  the  count,  laughing  once  more.  "I 
am  happy  with  my  pigs  and  my  Petrovna." 


70 


When  the  two  had  parted,  the  count  sat  on  the  grass 
beside  Petrovna  and  the  boy,  and  opened  out  to  him  the 
prospect  he  thought  he  had  secured. 

"My  little  Evan,"  he  said,  "you  saw  the  gentleman 
who  has  just  gone  away?  He  is  one  of  the  richest  men 
in  the  world,  and  one  of  the  kindest.  He  is  a  great  lord 
in  his  own  country, — in  England, — and  if  I  ask  him  he  will 
take  care  of  you." 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  asked  Petrovna. 

"  He  is  the  Marquess  of  Avelchurch,"  Montmeillard 
answered.     "  We  were  at  Oxford  together." 

"  Will  you  go  with  him,  my  little  Evan  ? "  asked 
Petrovna,  in  a  voice  of  silky  mockery.  His  halting 
English  lent  an  odd  emphasis  to  his  speech.  "  Will  you  go 
to  him,  my  little  Evan,  and  be  a  little  servant,  and  learn  to 
be  proud  to  dirty  little  hojs,  and  to  turn  up  the  nose  at 
people  because  they  are  poor?  Oh,  you  should  go,  for  by 
and  by  the  great  nobleman  will  dress  you  in  silk  stockings, 
and  will  give  you  a  laced  coat  like  the  monkey  at  the  fair, 
and  make  you  a  fine  gentleman  indeed,  and  you  will  ride  at 
the  back  of  his  carriage,  and  will  learn  to  be  a  snob  and  a 
slave,  my  little  Evan.  Oh,  what  a  chance,  what  an  oiDi^or- 
tunity  !     Won't  you  go,  my  little  Evan  ?  " 

Little  Evan  had  been  brought  up  in  a  rough  school,  and 
without  his  consent  had  listened  to  a  good  deal  of  rough 
language,  Montmeillard  laughed  aloud  Avhen  the  boy 
clutched  Petrovna  with  a  new  burst  of  indignant  tears,  and 
blubbered  out  : 

"  I'll  see  him  cjo  to  hell  first  !  " 


CHAPTER  VII 

As  a  concession  to  circumstance  the  Comte  de  Mont- 
meillavcl  bought  a  paper  collar  and  an  inexpensive  tie.  He 
borrowed  the  blacking-brushes  at  the  cheap  little  boarding- 
house  in  which  for  the  time  being  he  rested,  and  Avith  his 
own  aristocratic  hands  brushed  his  own  boots,  singing 
gaylj  meanwhile.  At  the  appointed  hour  he  presented  him- 
self at  the  Belleville  with  his  shabby  jacket  buttoned  over 
the  Crimean  shirt,  and  his  hat  cocked  on  three  hairs,  as 
smiling  and  jaunty  as  if  he  had  had  a  million  at  the  bank, 
and  had  trodden  the  asphalt  of  his  native  Paris  on  his 
way  to  that  little  supper  chez  Bignon  for  which  he  had  a 
few  hours  eai'lier  professed  himself  willing  to  sell  his 
political  conscience. 

Mr.  Johnstone's  incognito  was  less  successfully  preserved 
than  the  Marquess  of  Avelchurch  fancied,  and  when  that 
gentleman  ordered  that  some  extra  care  should  be  taken 
with  the  day's  dinner,  the  landlord  of  the  Belleville  con- 
strued the  request  after  the  most  generous  fashion.  The 
astonished  convives  found  before  them  a  couple  of  fowls 
boiled,  a  couple  of  fowls  roasted,  a  pair  of  roast  ducks,  a 
roast  goose,  and  a  huge  wild  turkey  some  thirty  pounds  in 
weight.  Half  a  score  of  pies  and  puddings  stood  upon  the 
sideboard,  and  every  kind  of  vegetable  the  district  could 
supply  steamed  in  as  many  dishes.  A  marquess  and  the 
son  of  a  duke,  the  landlord  argued,  might-  very  well  be 
more  plenteously  supplied  than  a  commoner  ;  at  least,  he 
had  a  right  to  a  lai'ger  bill,  and  the  house  was  plenteously 
provisioned  for  a  day  or  two.  The  count's  shabby  exterior 
made  no  difference  in  his  reception,  for  whom  the  Mar- 

71 


72 


quess  of  Avelcluirch  cared  to  distinguisli  by  his  hospitality 
was  of  necessity  a  person  of  importance. 

The  marquess  ate  little,  but  the  count,  who  had  long 
been  strange  to  good  fare,  devoted  himself  to  the  wild 
turkey  with  such  vigor  as  to  make  a  considerable  inroad 
even  upon  that  majestic  bird.  The  host  had  found  in  his 
cellar  a  really  excellent  Australian  hermitage,  and  for  an 
hour  the  exile  was  happy.  A  cup  of  indifferent  coffee 
crowned  the  banquet,  and  a  cigar  from  the  marquess's  own 
case  seemed  to  taste  of  heaven. 

"  Unhappy  man  !  "  said  the  count,  lolling  back  in  his 
chair,  and  looking  idly  at  his  companion  through  the 
smoke-wreaths.     "  You  dine  every  day." 

"  Is  that  a  matter  of  commiseration  ?"  the  other  asked. 

"  Try  my  plan,"  said  the  count,  "  Refrain  from  dining 
for  five  years.     Then  dine," 

"Why  not  go  back  to  Paris?"  asked  the  marquess. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  returned  Montmeillard,  "  since  I  must 
wear  a  shabby  jacket,  I  would  rather  wear  it  anywhere  in 
the  world  than  in  Paris.  To  be  poor  in  Paris  is  the  very 
devil.  I  have  tried  it,  and  I  know.  To  be  poor  out  here 
matters  nothing  at  all.  It  is  a  great  deal  better  fun  than 
you  would  fancy." 

"Well,"  said  the  marquess,  after  a  pause,  "about  tlie 
boy.  I  have  been  making  enquiries,  and  I  find  there  is 
not  the  remotest  probability  of  an  acquittal  in  the  case  of 
either  of  his  parents." 

"There  is  not,"  Montmeillard  answered,  "  the  faintest 
little  shadow  of  a  chance." 

"You  spoke  of  the  child  as  showing  promise,"  said  the 
marquess.     "In  what  direction  ?" 

"He's  a  bright  little  fellow  altogether,"  the  count 
answered;  "a  boy  of  whom  I  fancy  you  might  make 
almost  any  thing," 

"He  has  no  friends  or  relatives  in  this  country?" 


73 


"Not  a  soul." 

"  I  see  no  reason,"  said  the  Marquess  of  Avelchurch, 
after  a  lengthier  pause — "  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should 
not  help  him.  He  might  be  sent  to  school,  and  then 
taught  some  useful  trade.  I  think  I  could  undertake  that. 
One  would  have  to  find  somebody  to  look  after  him,  and 
it  would  be  better  for  the  boy  to  be  removed  from  the 
region  of  this  miserable  tragedy.  Yes,  I  think  I  may 
undertake  that.  I  will  have  it  seen  to.  Is  the  boy  with 
you?" 

*'  Petrovna  has  him  in  charge  just  now,"  the  count 
answered. 

"The  sooner  he  is  out  of  Mr.  Petrovna's  charge  the 
better,"  said  the  marquess.  "I  will  see  that  arrangements 
are  made  for  him  at  once." 

Now  that  he  had  secured  the  sympathy  of  so  powerful  a 
protector  young  Evan's  prospects  would  have  seemed  to 
brighten,  but  there  came  an  unexpected  hitch  in  the 
arrangements  for  his  benefit.  Before  the  benevolent 
scheme  of  the  marquess  could  be  put  into  effect  Evan 
Rhys  the  elder  had  been  tried  for  the  murder  of  Mr. 
Penthearn,  had  been  found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to  be 
hanged.  His  wife  had  been  convicted,  as  every-bod}^  had 
foreseen  she  would  be,  as  an  accessory  after  the  fact,  but 
in  her  case  the  judge  was  merciful,  and  inflicted  a  com- 
paratively light  sentence — one  of  five  years'  imprisonment. 

Montmeillard's  one  purpose  in  visiting  the  city  had  been 
to  witness  the  trial.  Now  that  was  over  he  would  have 
returned  at  once  but  for  young  Evan.  He  waited  to  see 
the  boy  disposed  of,  but  he  waited  in  vain. 

Evan  seemed  almost  stupefied.  He  ate  nothing  for  days, 
and  the  people  about  him  began  to  be  afraid  for  his  life. 
Nothing  short  of  force, — and  nobody  had  the  heart  to 
apply  that, — could  keep  the  wretched  child  from  rambling 
round   the  prison   in    which  his  father  lay   awaiting  the 


74 


sentence  of  the  law.  He  had  to  be  souglit  there  late  at 
night,  but  he  was  back  again  with  the  first  glimpse  of 
dawn,  and  all  day  long  he  prowled  about  the  prison  or  sat 
staring  at  its  blank  walls  with  a  face  as  barren  of  expres- 
sion as  their  own.  On  the  fourth  day  after  the  delivery 
of  the  sentence  Montmeillard  found  him  seated  on  a  heap 
of  road  metal  at  the  back  of  the  prison,  bunched  up  like  a 
diminutive  old  man,  with  his  hands  clasped  about  his 
knees. 

"You  must  come  home  with  me,  Evan,"  said  tlie  count, 
stooping  over  him,  and  laying  a  kind  band  upon  his 
shoulder. 

The  boy  lifted  his  face,  striped  and  grimed  with  tears, 
and  shook  his  head. 

"  You  must  really  come,"  Montmeillard  urged  him. 
"There  is  a  lady  there  who  has  travelled  all  the  way  from 
Melbourne  on  purpose  to  find  you,  and  to  take  you  away 
from  here." 

Young  Evan  shook  his  head  again,  very  slowly  and 
doggedly. 

"  The  lady,"  said  the  count,  "  will  take  care  of  you  and 
be  kind  to  you.  She  will  take  you  to  school  ;  you  will  be 
well  dressed  and  Avell  taken  care  of.  You  will  be  taught 
how  to  grow  up  to  be  a  man,  and  you  will  have  companions 
of  your  own  age.  You  are  going  to  school,  Evan.  Don't 
you  think  you  will  like  that?" 

A  third  time  Evan  shook  his  head.  Tlie  count  took  one 
of  the  grimy  little  hands,  and  made  a  movement  as  if  to 
lead  him  away.     But  the  child  resisted  sullenly. 

"  Now,  my  poor  little  fellow,"  said  Montmeillard,  "  what 
is  the  good  of  this  ?  You  are  only  making  yourself  ver}', 
very  unhappy  to  no  purpose.  You  will  be  better  when 
you  are  away." 

Persuasion  was  altogether  wasted.  The  boy  refused  to 
speak  a  word,  but  sat  staring  at  the  prison  wall,  and  only 


75 


shook  his  head  from  time  to  time  when  appealed  to.  Mont- 
meillard  had  no  mind  to  cany  him  away,  or  to  drag  him 
forcibly  through  the  streets,  and  yet  he  did  not  care  to  be 
baffled.  He  left  him,  therefore,  and  went  in  search  of  a 
cab,  a  luxury  he  could  ill  afford.  He  found  one  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  returned  Avith  it,  lifted  the  child  bodily  into 
the  vehicle,  and  drove  away  with  him.  Evan  struggled 
to  free  himself,  but,  finding  that  of  no  avail,  sat  still  in 
silence. 

They  reached  the  boarding-house,  and  there  Evan  was 
introduced  to  the  lady  of  whom  the  count  had  spoken. 
She  was  a  kindly  looking  woman,  dressed  in  fashionable 
mourning,  and  it  is  very  likely  that  to  the  boy's  fancy  she 
was  a  member  of  one  of  those  dreadful  upper  classes  of 
whom  he  had  heard  so  much.  He  refused  to  say  a  word 
to  her,  and  had  nothing  but  that  dogged  shake  of  the 
head  in  reply  to  all  proposals. 

"  Very  well,  my  poor  little  fellow,"  said  the  count  at 
last.  "  It  is  of  no  use  talking  any  more.  Every-body 
means  to  be  kind  to  you,  and  you  will  have  to  go." 

"  I  sha'n't  stop,"  said  Evan,  opening  his  lips  for  the  first 
time. 

"  You  will  have  to  stop,"  said  the  count.  "  You  will  be 
made  to  stop." 

"  All  right,"  the  boy  answered,  with  a  short,  contemptu- 
ous laugh. 

The  count  gave  vent  to  an  exclamation  in  his  own 
language,  and  the  lady  addressed  him  in  halting  and  indif- 
ferent French. 

This  was  really,  she  said,-  a  most  disagreeable  and 
intractable  child.  He  was  not  at  all  the  kind  of  boy  she 
had  expected  to  find,  or  at  all  the  kind  of  boy  her  husband 
was  in  the  habit  of  receiving.  She  professed  herself  most 
anxious  to  oblige  le  marky,  and  it  would  be  easy  to  make 
the  child  outwardly  presentable,  but  she  was  ver}^  doubt- 


ful  as  to  the  moral  influence  the  young  gentleman  would 
exert  in  lier  husband's  seminary. 

"The  Marquess  of  Avelchurch,"  asked  the  count,  "has 
given  instructions  for  the  boy's  outfit  ?  " 

Yes,  said  the  lady,  the  marquess  had  given  instructions 
that  the  child  was  to  be  respectably  attired,  and  in  all 
respects  reasonably  provided  for.  In  tliat  case  the  count 
suggested  that  it  would  be  well  to  send  at  once  to  a  tailor. 

During  this  colloquy  Evan  sat  silent,  looking  shrewdly 
from  one  to  the  other.  The  sound  of  a  foreign  language 
made  him  suspicious,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  being  dis- 
posed of  in  some  clandestine  fashion. 

An  outfit  was  found,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour  or 
two  Evan,  having  been  bathed  and  scoured,  was  newly 
dressed  from  top  to  toe.  He  was  quite  passive  under  this 
change,  but  in  another  hour  he  had  disappeared.  He  was 
sought  for  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  prison,  and  again 
found  there,  and  once  more  taken  home. 

"  It's  no  good,  Frenchj^"  he  said  ;  "  I  ain't  goin'  away. 
I  shall  stop  where  dad  is  till  they've — till  they've  hanged 
him." 

He  had  begun  sulkily,  but  he  ended  in  a  new  passion  of 
tears.  He  vowed,  storming,  that  he  Avouldn't,  wouldn't, 
wouldn't  go  ;  that  as  often  as  they  took  him  he  Avould  run 
away.  He  backed  all  this  with  an  oath,  wliich  sounded  so 
dreadful,  coming  fiom  such  childish  lips,  that  the  school- 
master's wife  lifted  her  hands  in  horror. 

"  Je  voudraise  obleegy  le  mark}',"  said  the  lady,  "mais 
le  petty  garyong  est  ampossib." 

"  Madam,"  said  Montmeillard  in  his  own  tongue,  "  the 
boy  has  been  roughly  bred,  but  he  is  a  child  of  an  excellent 
disposition,  and  Avhen  this  great  grief  is  over,  I  have  no 
doubt  you  will  find  him  easy  enough  to  deal  with.  I  am 
afraid,"  he  added,  "  that  the  shock  of  recent  events  has 
almost  unhinsred  his  mind." 


The  lady  relented,  and,  "pour  obleeg}'  le  marky,"  would 
do  her  best  for  this  intractable  waif.  A  generous  outfit 
was  packed  for  him,  and  a  close  watch  was  kept  upon  him 
to  see  tliat  he  did  not  again  escape.  Tlie  train  for  Mel- 
bourne started  at  an  early  hour  next  morning,  and  the 
count  and  Petrovna  saw  him  off  by  it  under  the  charge 
of  his  new  protectress.  This  done,  they  turned  their  backs 
upon  the  city,  and  struck  out  across  the  wilds  on  a  three- 
day's  tramp  to  Koollala. 

Young  Evan  bolted  at  the  first  station  at  which  the  train 
stopped,  but  Avas  there  at  once  arrested  and  brought  back, 
strucfirlinfir  and  fifrhting:,  in  a  savage  silence.  At  the  next 
station  he  made  another  attempt,  but  tliis  time  the  feeble 
authority  of  the  school-mistress  was  backed  by  the  guard, 
who  for  a  slight  fee  undertook  the  charge  of  the  boy  for 
the  rest  of  the  journey. 

Once  at  the  Spencer  Street  Station  in  Melbourne  he  was 
supposed  to  be  safe,  but  he  took  advantage  of  a  moment  of 
confusion,  lost  himself  in  the  crowd  in  a  mere  instant  of 
time,  and  was  away  into  the  streets.  He  had  not  a  penny 
about  him,  and  the  journey  which  he  proposed  to  himself 
had  taken  eighteen  hours  by  train.  Had  he  been  older  the 
prospect  of  five  hundred  penniless  miles  might  have  dis- 
mayed him.  As  it  was,  he  was  far  too  young  to  be  provi- 
dent in  his  ideas,  and  the  only  definite  thought  in  his  mind 
was  that  every  step  he  took  would  bring  him  nearer  to  his 
father.  His  first  impulse  was  to  run  fast,  in  no  matter 
what  direction,  so  long  as  he  could  evade  pursuit.  But 
the  minute  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  was  not  being 
followed  he  stopped  to  take  breath,  to  look  about  him,  and 
to  resolve  upon  his  course.  He  found  himself  in  a  by- 
street in  which  there  were  but  few  people  going  up  and 
down.  He  allowed  two  or  three  to  pass  him,  not  finding 
any  thing  inviting  or  sympathetic  in  their  looks.  But  by 
and  by  a  broad-set,  burly  man,  with  a  sun-tanned  face  and 


78 


hands,  came  along  the  street,  and  Evan  ventured  to  stop 
him. 

"  I  say,  mate,"  he  began,  "  which  is  the  way  to 
Adelaide  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  man  accosted,  "  you  say  '  mate,'  do 
you?"  He  looked  down  laughingly  at  the  diminutive 
figure.  "  Well,  if  you  say  mate,  I  say  mate.  What  do 
you  want  to  know  the  way  to  Adelaide  for?  " 

"  I  want  to  go  there,"  said  Evan. 

The  stranger  stared  at  him  with  rounded  eyes.  "  Why, 
my  lad,"  he  answered,  "you  don't  know  what  you're  talk- 
ing about." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  said  Evan.  "  I  want  to  go  to 
Adelaide." 

"  Why,  Adelaide's  a  matter  of  five  hundred  miles  from 
here,"  the  man  responded,  stooping,  with  a  weather-stained 
hand  on  either  knee,  to  get  a  closer  look  at  this  small 
curiosity. 

"  I  Avant  to  go  there,"  said  Evan.  "  Which  is  the 
way  ?  " 

"You  look,"  said  the  stranger,  "as  if  you  had  some 
decent  folks  to  take  care  of  you.     Where  do  you  live  ?" 

"  I  don't  live  anywhere,"  said  Evan. 

"  H'm  !  "  said  the  man,  "  that's  a  queerish  sort  of  a  yarn. 
Where  do  you  come  from  ?  " 

"  I  come  from  Adelaide,"  said  Evan. 

"  Whereabouts  in  Adelaide  ? "  the  man  asked,  his  red 
face  growing  redder  as  he  stooped.  "  Come,  now,  no 
tricks  with  travellers — whereabouts  in  Adelaide  ?  " 

"I  didn't  live  in  Adelaide,"  said  Evan.  "I  come  from 
there  yesterday  by  the  train.     I  live  in  Koollala." 

"  Oh,  at  Koollala,  did  j'ou  ?  "  the  man  said,  straighten- 
ing himself.     "  Why,  that's   the  place   where What 

did  you  say  your  name  was  ?" 

"  Evan  Rhys,"  said  Evan. 


79 


The  man  gave  quite  a  jump,  and  stared  at  him  liarder 
than  ever.  "  What  do  you  want  to  go  to  Adelaide  for  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"I  want  to  go,"  said  Evan.  His  features  began  to 
work,  and  his  lips  to  tremble. 

"  Now,  most  likely,"  said  the  stranger,  "  you've  been 
brought  away  from  Adelaide  for  a  reason,  you  have. 
You've  bolted  from  the  friends  that  brought  you  here. 
Eh,  is  that  it?"  The  boy  made  no  answer.  "  Now,  what 
do  you  want  to  get  back  to  Adelaide  for  ?  " 

"  Dad's  there,"  Evan  answered. 

"  You  bet  he  is,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  low  murmur  to 
himself.     "  And  whereabouts  is  dad  in  Adelaide  ?  " 

At  this  the  boy  bi'oke  down,  and  the  strange  man  took 
him  by  the  hand. 

"  You  come  along  with  me,  my  lad,"  he  said,  "  and  I'll 
see  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

"  No,  no,  no  !  "  cried  Evan.     "  I  want  to  go  to  Adelaide." 

"  If  you've  got  any  right  to  go  to  Adelaide,"  the  stranger 
answered,  "  I'll  send  you  there.  But  if  you  haven't,  you 
must  go  back  to  your  friends.     You  come  along  with  me." 

Evan  cried  and  struggled,  but  the  stranger  held  him 
tightl}'',  and  he  recognized  the  futility  of  resistance.  In 
a  very  little  while,  however,  they  came  upon  a  crowded 
tlioroughfare,  and,  the  man's  grasp  relaxing  for  a  moment, 
the  boy  tore  himself  free  and  ran  as  if  for  life.  The  burly 
stranger  pursued  him  for  a  few  yards  onlj'-,  and  then 
resigned  the  chase.  Evan  took  another  by-street,  which 
led  him  toward  the  river,  and  there  lounged  about  for 
hours,  looking  at  the  faces  of  the  passers-by,  and  finding, 
after  his  recent  experience,  no  encouragement  in  any  one 
of  them. 

The  way  was  full  of  difficulties  he  had  not  even  dreamed 
of.  He  was  only  a  child,  though  perhaps  unusually 
precocious  ;  and  he  felt  himself  quite  foiled  and  helpless 


80 


as  lie  walked  about  tlie  inliospitable  streets,  not  daring  to 
accost  a  creature  for  fear  that  he  should  be  once  more 
arrested. 

He  began  to  grow  hungry  and  a  little  footsore,  for  the 
boots  with  which  he  had  been  newly  supplied  cramped 
him.  He  longed  to  take  them  off,  but  found  no  bare- 
footed people,  and  was  afraid  of  looking  singular. 
Neither  pain  nor  hunger  nor  fatigue  could  dull  the  edge 
of  his  resolve.  His  determination  to  get  back  to  Adelaide 
and  be  near  his  father  was  perhaps  much  less  a  resolve 
than  a  mere  instinct  ;  but,  then,  instinct  is  much  stronger 
than  mere  resolve,  and  the  bidding  of  his  heart  was  alto- 
gether imperative,  and  not  to  be  denied. 

At  last  chance  gave  him  what  had  been  denied  to 
enquiry.  He  found  a  group  of  men  sitting  b}'  the  water- 
side in  Flinders  Street  smoking  and  talking.  He  had  no 
interest  in  their  conversation,  but  in  a  dazed  sort  of  wa}- 
he  listened. 

One  of  them  said  :  "  I  am  off  out  of  this  to-morrow.  I 
shall  hump  my  bluey  early  in  the  morning,  and  I  shall 
make  Geelong  by  nightfall." 

"  Back  for  Adelaide  ?  "  said  another. 

The  man  nodded. 

*'  What  do  3'ou  want  to  go   to  a sleepy  hole  like 

that Adelaide  for  ?  "  the  other  asked. 

"I've  got  a  pal  there,"  the  first  speaker  answered. 

Young  Evan  took  courage.  Here  was  the  first  hint  be 
had  been  able  to  discover  as  to  the  road  on  which  ho  was 
bound  to  travel.  He  touched  the  speaker  on  the  shoidder, 
and  asked  him  :     "  How  far  is  it  to  Geelong  ?  " 

"  Why,"  said  the  man,  staring  at  him  rather  curiously 
"it's  a  matter  of  five-and-thirty  mile,  perhaps.  What  do 
you  want  to  know  for?  " 

"I    want   to   go   there,"   said    Evan;    "which    is    the 


way 


9" 


81 


"  Geelong  !  "  said  tlie  man,  rubbing  a  bristly  chin,  and 
staring  hard  at  him  ;  "  you  will  never  make  Geelong  with 
them  little  legs  of  yours." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  shall,"  the  boy  answered  confidently.  "  I 
Avant  to  go  there,  and  I  want  to  start  at  once.  Which  is 
the  way  ?  " 

The  man  stood  up  and  with  a  slow  and  heavy  gesture 
directed  him  here  and  there  into  a  tangle  from  w^hich  no 
intelligence  could  have  escaped;  but  young  Evan  caught 
two  points — the  Warrabee  and  Chingford  Station.  They 
were  on  the  way,  and  that  was  enough  for  him.  He 
started  on  the  road  indicated,  and  from  time  to  time  made 
new  enquiries.  Now  that  he  was  able  to  ask  for  guidance 
to  places  which  it  did  not  seem  quite  impossible  for  him 
to  reach,  his  questions  were  answered  readily  enough, 
though  the  people  he  accosted  still  showed  some  surprise 
at  the  spectacle  of  so  very  small  a  boy  embarked  alone 
upon  so  long  a  journey. 

He  drew  clear  of  the  city  in  a  while,  and  pegged  on 
steadily.  When  once  he  was  free  from  observation,  he 
took  off  his  boots,  and,  tying  the  laces  together,  hung 
them  over  one  shoulder.  He  rolled  his  socks  into  a  ball, 
and  stowed  them  away  in  his  jacket  pocket.  In  this 
fashion  he  walked  more  easil}^,  for  until  Avithin  the  last 
eight-and-forty  hours  he  had  no  acquaintance  with  shoe- 
leather.  He  had  not  broken  his  fast  that  day.  The 
weather  was  blazing  hot,  and  he  had  already  rambled 
miles  about  the  city,  which  now  lay  beliind  him.  Manj^  a 
time  he  was  fain  to  stop  and  rest,  but  the  longing  in  his 
small  yet  valiant  heart  tugged  him  onward.  Sometimes 
his  hurry  seemed  so  to  draw  him  that  he  began  to  run,  but 
it  was  not  long  before  he  found  that  this  was  likely  to  be 
the  poorest  way  of  making  progress,  and  he  set  himself 
with  a  dogged  tenacity,  very  remarkable  in  a  child  of  his 
years,  to  a  settled  pace,  and  so  went  on  mile  after  mile 
6 


82 


along  the  lonely  road,  never  once  looking  backward,  and 
never  once  reckoning  on  the  chances  of  success  or  the 
almost  absolute  certainty  of  failure.  His  father  was  five 
hundred  miles  ahead  of  him,  sentenced  to  be  hanged,  and 
the  craving  to  be  near  him  was  stronger  than  any  physical 
impulse  of  fear  or  hunger  or  weariness. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

But  in  any  prolonged  contest  between  soul  and  body, 
body  has  many  hours  of  victory.  It  was  still  broad 
daylight,  and  there  were  still  whole  hours  to  walk 
in,  when  Evan  came  to  a  dead  stand-still.  When  once 
he  surrendered  his  forces,  he  slipped  to  the  ground 
like  a  wet  cloth,  and  for  a  while  lay  there  almost  without 
thought  or  feeling.  In  some  five  or  six  minutes  he 
revived  enougli  to  take  advantage  of  the  partial  shadow 
cast  by  a  bush,  and,  having  dragged  himself  into  that 
shelter,  began  to  harden  his  heart  for  a  continuation  of  the 
journey.  While  he  was  in  the  very  act  of  resolving  that 
he  would  rise  and  make  another  start,  he  fell  asleep. 

The  sun  veered  round,  and  shone  full  on  his  closed  eye- 
lids, but  he  made  no  movement.  Since  he  had  left  the 
Spencer  Street  Station  that  morning  he  had  travelled  a 
matter  of  some  twenty  miles,  and  for  as  many  hours  he 
had  not  tasted  food. 

He  lay  until  a  heavy  hand  took  him  by  the  shoulder  and 
shook  him  again  and  again.  Then  he  sat  up,  staring  about 
him,  and  seeing  nothing  but  a  blood-red  glow  and  wavering 
shapes  of  darkness. 

"Egad,"  said  a  rough  voice,  "I  thought  you  was  dead. 
What's  the  matter  with  you  ?     What  brings  you  here  ?  " 

Evan's  sight  began  to  clear  a  little,  and  he  could  make 
out  dimly  that  a  man  with  a  swag  across  his  shoulders  was 
bending  over  him.  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  saw  huge 
globules  of  light  and  dark  and  red,  but  when  he  looked  up 
again,  he  could  see  tlie  stranger  pretty  clearly.  He  was  a 
common  enough  figure  for  Australia  at  that  time,  bronzed 

83 


84 


and  bearded,  attired  in  moleskin  trousers,  great  laced  boots, 
a  collarless  flannel  shirt,  and  a  big  wide-awake. 

"I  fell  asleep,"  said  Evan, 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  "  that's  pretty  evident.  You  fell 
asleep,  and  you  fell  asleep  in  the  sun,  and  that's  a  dangerous 
thing  to  do  in  these  'ere  latitudes.     Where  are  you  from  ?  " 

"  Melbourne,"  said  Evan. 

"  That's  where  I'm  bound  for.     IIoav  far  is  it  ?  " 

Evan  could  not  tell  him.  He  thought  it  might  be 
twenty  miles,  and  at  that  response  the  stranger  swore 
softly  to  himself  and  sat  down. 

"  It  can't  be  nigh  on  as  far  as  that,  youngster,"  he  said. 
"  By  my  reckoning  it  should  be  no  more  than  twelve. 
And  where  are  you  going  to  ?  " 

"  Geelong,"  said  Evan. 

"  And  where  do  jon  put  up  by  the  way  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  boy  answered. 

The  man  said  "  Jehoshaphat  !  "  and  regarded  him  with 
the  look  of  curiosity  and  wonder  to  Avhich  he  was  now 
growing  fast  accustomed. 

"There's  a  station  five  miles  on," said  the  stranger,  after 
a  pause.  "  They'll  give  a  whipper-snapper  like  j^ou  a  shake- 
down there,  I  should  fancy,  thougli  they're  pretty  hard  on 
a  grown-up  sundowner.  Got  folks  living  at  Geelong?" 
he  asked,  after  another  pause. 

"  No,"  said  Evan. 

"  Where,  then  ?"  tlie  man  asked  him. 

"  It's  further  on  a  goodish  wa}',"  Evan  responded.  He 
was  growing  wary,  and  perhaps  in  his  inmost  heart  he 
knew  that  the  proposed  walk  to  Adelaide  was  little  short 
of  madness.  lie  was  afraid  of  every-body.  All  sorts  and 
conditions  of  people  seemed  disposed  to  exert  authority 
over  him. 

"  How  long  do  you  reckon  to  be  on  the  road  ?"  enquired 
the  stranger. 


85 


"  A  day  or  two,"  the  bo}^  answered. 

The  man  looked  him  up  and  down,  shifted  the  swag 
from  his  shoulders  to  the  ground,  and  began  to  fill  a 
pipe. 

"  Got  any  tucker  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No." 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  stranger  unbuckled  his  swag,  and  set  bread  and 
meat  before  him,  together  with  a  tin  bottle  of  cold 
unsugared  tea. 

"  Take  a  swig  at  that,"  he  said,  "  and  then  pitch  in. 
You  needn't  spare,"  he  added,  with  a  nod.  "  I  shall  make 
Melbourne  to-night,  and  you'll  leave  enough  for  me,  any 
Avay." 

He  drew  a  huge  clasp-knife  from  his  pocket,  opened  it, 
and  handed  it  to  the  boy,  wlio  fell  on  the  provisions 
voraciously.  While  he  ate,  the  stranger  took  between  his 
huge  sun-tanned  thumb  and  finger  the  collar  of  Evan's 
jacket,  and  examined  the  material. 

"That's  pretty  new.  You've  got  folks  to  look  after 
you,  seemingly.     What  brings  you  all  alone  out  here  ?  " 

It  was  a  peculiarity  of  young  Evan  that  he  had  not  yet 
learned  to  lie,  unless  it  were  in  direct  negative  or  affirma- 
tive. He  had  no  invention,  and  Avithout  telling  the  truth 
was  quite  unable  to  account  for  himself.  He  went  on  eat- 
ing, therefore,  and  returned  no  answer. 

The  stranger  questioned  him  no  further,  but  when 
Evan's  appetite  was  fully  satisfied,  he  corked  the  tin  bottle, 
carefully  rolled  up  his  provisions  in  his  blanket,  and 
rebuckled  the  straps  which  held  it. 

"You're  no  affair  of  mine,"  he  said,  after  going  through 

all  this  in    silence,   "  but  I'll   be   d d    if  you  ain't  a 

curiosity  ! " 

He  rose,  slung  his  burden  to  his  broad  shoulders,  and 


stood  for  a  moment  looking  down  at  his  chance-found 
companion. 

"The  station,"  he  said,  "is  about  five  miles  along. 
You'll  make  it  in  a  couple  of  hours,  and  I  should  think 
they'd  give  you  some  sort  of  shake-down," 

Evan  rose  to  his  feet,  picked  up  his  boots,  and  started 
on  the  road  indicated  by  the  man's  outstretched  hand. 

"  Halloa  !  "  said  the  stranger,  "  is  that  your  manners  ?  " 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  matey,"  said  the  boy  ;  and 
so,  without  a  backward  look,  he  set  out  again  upon  his 
journey.  The  man  stared  after  him,  tilted  his  wide-awake 
to  scratch  his  tousled  head,  and  nodded  a  score  of  times. 
Then  he  also  turned  and  went  upon  his  Avay. 

Evan's  shadow  lengthened  before  him,  until  at  last  he 
could  see  it  bobbing  up  and  down  on  bushes  or  chance  pro- 
jections of  the  ground  a  hundred  yards  ahead.  Then  it 
melted  into  the  general  shadow,  and  the  sun  was  down. 
The  boy  had  lived  his  life  in  the  open  air,  and  had  been 
afoot  every  day  from  morning  till  night,  but,  hardy  as  he 
was,  the  daj^'s  work  had  been  too  much  for  him,  and  he 
could  barely  crawl.  The  great,  waste,  open  country  grew 
more  and  more  desolate  as  the  vast  ring  of  yellow  light 
faded  rapidly  from  the  sky.  Then  darkness  came  on,  and 
for  a  while  he  could  hardly  see  the  track,  but  after  a  few 
minutes  the  stars  began  to  light  up,  and  bj^  and  by  diffused 
a  soft  radiance  full  and  clear  enough  to  liglit  his  footsteps. 
He  reached  the  station  of  which  the  stranger  had  spoken, 
but  there  was  a  great  barking  of  savage  dogs  there,  and  lie 
was  afraid  to  go  near  the  place. 

A  town-bred  child  would  have  thought  the  night  full  of 
terror  and  misery,  but  Evan  was  hardened  to  solitude. 
He  found  a  soft  enough  bed  in  the  furrow  of  a  field  of 
lucern  grass,  and  slept  soundly  until  the  dawn.  In  the 
clear,  pale  light  all  tlie  wide  expanse  of  country  looked 
awfully  solemn  and  lonely.     Tlie  curtained  Avindows  of  the 


87 


big  station-house  were  like  closed  eyes.  The  dogs  were 
quiet  now,  and  the  only  sound  to  be  heard  was  that  made 
by  a  horse  in  the  stables  at  the  back  of  the  house,  who 
rasped  a  restless  chain  through  an  iron  ring  attached  to  his 
manger,  and  beat  from  time  to  time  an  iron-shod  hoof  on 
a  brick  floor. 

The  sun  was  barely  up  when  a  soft,  melodious  voice, 
exquisitively  plaintive,  called  out  :  "  Neil  Gow  !  Neil 
Gow  !  Neil  Gow  ! "  three  times,  as  if  the  speaker's  heart 
were  broken  by  the  night-long  absence  of  some  person  of 
that  name.  This  woke  the  cynic  of  the  neighboring  wood, 
the  laughing  jackass,  deriding  the  grave  melodist  of  the 
morn  with  peals  of  scornful  merriment.  Down  came  his 
native  enemy,  the  shrike,  with  a  cry  as  piercing  as  his 
beak,  and  a  fight  ensued — all  anger  on  the  one  side,  and 
all  cynic  laughter  on  the  other.  The  shrill  note  of  the 
crane  sounded  solitary  far  and  far  away. 

Evan  emerged  from  the  field  in  which  he  had  slept,  and 
sat  down  upon  a  rail  to  await  the  awakening  of  the  house- 
hold. He  felt  no  humiliation  at  the  thought  of  begging 
his  bread.  He  was  bound  to  be  near  the  father  whom  he 
must  lose  so  soon,  and  he  must  needs  hold  body  and  soul 
together.  The  sun  was  but  just  over  the  horizon  when  he 
heard  a  faint  sound  of  movement  in  the  house,  and  by  and 
by  a  door  opened,  and  a  Chinaman  came  out  and  began  to 
water  a  kitchen-garden.  He  looked  at  Evan  from  time  to 
time  as  he  went  about  his  business  with  a  face  which  had 
no  more  expression  in  it  than  might  be  found  in  a  cannon- 
ball,  but  he  made  no  enquiries,  though  even  to  a  Chinaman 
the  presence  of  a  strange  small  boy  at  such  an  hour  at  such 
a  place  might  have  seemed  a  little  curious.  In  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  or  so  there  was  a  rather  boisterous  sound  of 
voices  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  Evan  knew  that  the 
boundary  riders  were  grooming  their  horses  in  preparation 
for  the  day's  work.     The  dogs  were  out  again  by  thia 


time — three  or  four  of  them — monstrous  creatures,  throt- 
tling themselves  in  their  collars,  and  yelping  madly  to  be 
among  the  bustle  of  the  morning.  He  was  not  afraid  of 
them  now,  but  he  gave  them  a  wdde  berth,  for  all  that,  as 
he  made  his  wa}^  round  the  house,  and  toward  the  stables. 

"  What  you  wantee  here  ?"  asked  John  Chinaman,  see- 
ing him  on  the  move. 

"I  want  some  tucker,"  said  Evan  boldly,  and  John 
grinned  in  friendly  fashion. 

"  All  litee,  you  go  backsidee — you  get  plog  there." 

A  brawny,  red-armed  woman  in  the  kitchen  heard  young 
Evan's  plea  for  refreshment,  and  handed  him  a  huge 
draught  of  buttermilk,  half  a  loaf,  and  a  dish  of  boiled 
mutton. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Geelong,"  said  Evan,  Avith  his  mouth  full. 

"  You  won't  get  there  afore  nightfall." 

She  hacked  a  generous  chunk  from  the  loaf,  and  another 
from  the  boiled  mutton.  "You'll  want  that  on  the  way." 
The  boy  ate  his  fill,  and  the  woman,  having  found  a  piece 
of  old  clean  toweling,  wrapped  up  the  bread  and  meat  in 
it,  and  handed  it  to  him  with  a  kiss.  He  was  not  greatly 
used  to  demonstrations  of  affection,  and  his  heart  was  ten- 
der. He  had  cried  so  much  of  late  that  the  tears  were 
near  his  eyes.  He  blinked  away  the  water  from  his  lashes, 
and  gave  one  sniff  of  pathos.  "  You're  young  to  be  travel- 
ling about  by  yourself,"  said  the  woman.  She  knelt  down 
by  him  in  womanly  fashion,  with  one  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  but  just  then  a  voice  from  inside  the  house  called 
her.  She  rose  hastily  to  obey  the  summons,  and  Evan, 
being  thus  left  alone,  slipped  with  a  face  of  shame  out  of 
the  house,  and  took  the  road  again. 

He  walked  on  all  day  long,  and  all  day  long  he  saw  the 
blank  walls  of  the  prison  in  which  his  father  la}'^,  and  his 
heart  yearned  to  be  before  them,  as  if  there  lay  there  a 


89 


very  haven  of  peace  and  rest.  The  outside  of  the  jail  in 
which  his  father  sat  under  sentence  to  be  hanged  made  but 
a  poor  ideal  of  home  for  a  cliild,  and  yet  it  was  the  only 
one  he  had.  Within  that  bleak  and  forbidding  building 
was  all  he  cared  for,  or,  as  it  seemed  to  him  then  through 
the  limited  vision  of  childhood,  all  he  would  ever  cax'e  for. 
The  place  drew  him  as  a  candle  draws  a  moth,  and  he 
walked  on  toward  it  mile  after  mile,  and  hour  after  hour, 
the  sun  flaming  down  pitilessly,  and  the  rough  road  scorch- 
ing his  bare  feet.  He  reached  the  town  at  nightfall,  but 
somehow  it  looked  less  hospitable  and  friendly  than  the 
wilderness,  and,  tired  as  he  was,  he  dragged  himself  beyond 
it,  made  his  last  meal  in  the  darkness,  and  lay  down  to 
sleep  within  sound  of  the  calling  of  the  sea.  The  woman 
at  the  station  had  helped  him  so  plenteously  that  he 
reckoned  himself  provisioned  for  tlie  morrow,  but  wlien  he 
woke  in  the  morning,  he  found  the  meat  quite  rancid,  and 
even  the  plentiful  hunch  of  bread  was  so  tainted  by  con- 
tact with  it  that  his  gorge  rose  at  every  morsel.  There 
were  a  thousand  things  to  interest  him  on  his  journey  had 
he  been  less  preoccupied,  for  the  lad  had  an  eye  for  nature, 
and,  having  spent  all  his  life  in  field  and  woodland,  knew 
more  about  her  open-air  secrets  than  eighty  grown  men 
out  of  a  hundred.  He  passed  things  which  would  have 
been  the  delight  and  wonder  of  a  summer  day  without  a 
sign  of  observation,  for  he  saw  more  clearly  than  any  thing 
before  his  bodily  eyes  the  bleak  walls  of  the  jail. 

But  let  the  heart's  passion  be  never  so  overwhelming, 
there  is  only  so  much  work  to  be  got  out  of  any  bodily 
mechanism.  His  feet  began  to  gall  him,  until  the  hot, 
rough  road  burned  like  smouldering  cinders  under  them. 
He  grew  hungry  again,  and,  what  was  infinitely  worse, 
began  to  know  (for  the  first  time  in  his  life)  what  thirst 
could  mean.  He  went  on  weeping  and  whimpering,  dogged 
as  ever,  lifting  one  flinching  foot  after  the  other,  and  lick- 


90 


ing  with  his  baked  lips  at  the  tears  which,  in  spite  of  res- 
olution, trickled  down  his  face.  The  little  heart  throbbed 
with  scorn  and  indignation  at  his  bodily  weakness,  and 
he  stuck  to  his  task  until  he  could  absolute}}^  go  no  further. 
He  had  had  in  view  for  the  last  mile  or  so  a  dark  belt  of 
bush,  toward  which  the  road  led  straight,  and  he  had  panted 
for  the  cool  and  shade  of  this,  and  had  promised  himself 
that  when  he  reached  it  he  would  find  refreshment  and  new 
strength.  He  had  barely  struck  the  bush  track  when  he 
dropped  on  his  hands  and  knees,  weeping  aloud  for  pain 
and  something  very  like  despair  and  rage  at  his  own  weak- 
ness. The  welcome  of  those  desolate  walls,  which  had  so 
far  drawn  him  on,  seemed  to  recede  from  him,  and  to  go 
further  and  further  away  into  an  impossible  distance.  It 
was  a  pitiable  thing  that  a  child  should  have  such  a  goal 
at  all,  but  to  be  balked  of  that  seemed  intolerable,  and, 
being  a  good  deal  dazzled  by  the  sun,  and  addled  in  mind 
by  the  light  and  heat,  and  by  pain  and  mental  misery,  he 
grew  conscious  of  something  within  himself  which  j^itied 
him  so  profoundly  that  the  sense  of  his  own  suffering  and 
of  his  better  deservings  broke  him  down  altogether.  He 
thought  himself  miles  away  from  any  chance  of  refuge. 

He  tried  again  and  again  to  defy  his  own  weakness,  but 
his  flinching  feet  refused  to  bear  him,  and  at  last  he  found 
almost  a  luxury  in  the  comforts  of  despair.  He  had  tried 
his  best,  and  the  thing  was  not  to  be  done.  If  nobody 
passed,  or  if  such  as  passed  were  hard-hearted  and  refused 
to  succor  him,  he  would  die.     There  was  no  help  for  it. 

He  lay  amid  the  undergrowth,  on  the  edge  of  the  track, 
and  pillowed  his  wet  face  on  both  hands.  He  would  die 
because  he  had  tried  to  go  where  his  heart  called  him,  and 
there  was  an  extraordinary  sweetness  in  the  thought  which 
surged  above  all  bitterness  and  pain.  There  are  fountains 
of  sweet  water  even  in  the  waste  brine  of  great  oceans. 
In  fancy  he  lay  beside  his  father  on  his  prison  bed.     He 


91 


could  almost  feel  with  his  cheek  the  rough  corduroy  of  his 
father's  coat  and  its  hone  buttons.  His  fathei-'s  arms  were 
around  him.  He  was  sure  and  more  sure  of  that,  and  his 
aches  and  pains  were  all  fading  away,  when  a  distant  foot- 
step came  into  his  dream,  and,  without  disturbing  him,  drew 
nearer  and  heavier,  until  the  sudden  pause  aroused  him, 
and  a  rough  voice  cried  out:  "Halloa!"  in  a  tone  of 
astonishment.  He  turned  his  head,  and  there  before  him 
was  the  man  who  in  Flinders  Street,  two  days  before,  had 
expressed  his  intention  to  walk  to  Adelaide.  The  boy's  first 
thought  was  like  a  gleam  of  joy  to  him,  for  one  of  his  late 
torments  had  arisen  from  an  uncertainty  about  the  road. 
He  knew  now  that  he  was  on  the  right  track,  and  the 
reflection  gave  him  no  time  to  consider  that  he  had  fallen 
helpless  upon  it,  with  barely  a  twentieth  part  of  his 
attempted  journey  done  ! 

"Halloa  !  "  said  the  man  again,  and  stood  staring  at  him, 
pipe  in  cheek,  with  great  beads  of  perspiration  gathered  on 
his  sandy  eyebrows.  "  You've  overshot  Geelong,  my  lad, 
by  fifteen  miles.     Do  j^ou  know  tliat  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Evan,  "  I  am  going  to  Adelaide." 

"  With  them  feet  ?  "  asked  the  tramp. 

The  boy's  bare  soles,  flayed  and  bleeding,  with  little 
fragments  of  gravel  sticking  into  them  here  and  there, 
were  fully  exposed  to  view.  Evan  sat  up  painfully,  and 
with  difiiculty  dragged  a  foot  upon  one  knee,  and  inspected 
it  gingerly,  brushing  away  the  harsh  morsels  which  had 
forced  their  way  thi'ough  the  toughened  skin. 

"  This  is  all nonsense,"  said  the  man,  Avho  was  a 

stupid,  rough  fellow  to  look  at.     "You  can't  be  let  lie  here 

and  die.     Of  all  the luck  I  ever  met  in  all  my  life  this 

is  the est.     It  ain't  enough  as  I've  done  fifteen  miles 

a'ready  after  five-and-thirty  yesterday  in  this  br'iling  heat, 
but  I've  got  to  take  you  up  pick-a-back  for  the  next  fifteen. 
Oh,  blarst  the   world,  I  say  !     Come  along  !     You've  got 


92 


to  be  fixed  up  somehow.     I'm   d d  if   your  lips   ain't 

cracking.     Thirsty  ?     Take  a  pull  at  that." 

He  had  a  tin  bottle  of  tea,  tepid  with  the  sun's  heat, 
slung  across  his  shoulders,  and  hanging  down  in  front  of 
his  bare,  hairy  chest.  He  unslung  it,  drew  out  the  cork, 
and  proffered  it  to  Evan,  who  began  to  drink  greedily. 

"  Not  that  way,"  said  the  tramp  ;  "  that's  waste,  that  is." 
He  laid  a  restraining  hand  upon  the  bottle.  "  Don't  do 
you  no  good  neither.  A  teaspoonful  at  a  time,  and  roll 
about  your  mouth  well  afore  you  swallows  it.  That's  the 
way.  Does  you  ten  times  the  good  on  half  the  quantity. 
Feel  better  ?  " 

"  I'm  all  right  now,"  said  Evan,  trying  to  rise. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  the  tramp  retorted,  "  you're  all  right,  you 
are,  I  don't  think.     You  was  all  right  to  lie  and  rot  here  if 

somebody  hadn't  had  the  d d  bad  luck  to  come  by  and 

spot  you." 

Staring  sulkily  at  Evan,  and  mumbling  ferocious  curses 
all  the  while,  he  slowly  swung  round  his  swag  from  his 
shoulders,  until  it  reposed  upon  his  chest.  Then,  still 
cursing  at  the  hardness  of  his  lot,  he  knelt,  and  made  a 
back. 

"Get  up,  you  young  imp,"  he  said,  "and  don't  you  start 
on  no  more  walks  to  Adelaide  when  I'm  on  the  Wallaby." 

He  shambled  from  his  knees  to  his  feet,  and,  having 
shaken  the  boy  into  comfortable  posture,  started  off, 
growling  to  himself  to  the  effect  that  he  was  the  unluckiest 
devil  ever  born,  and  that  life  for  him  was  one  continuous 
and  increasing  burden.  He  did  his  service  ungraciously, 
but  within  the  next  six  hours  he  carried  a  well-grown  lad 
of  eight  years  fifteen  miles,  and  finally,  with  many  execra- 
tions, deposited  him  at  a  roadside  shanty,  the  occupant  of 
which  was  willing  to  offer  shelter  to  the  pair. 

Evan  lay  footsore  for  two  days,  and  then  a  passing 
teamster  gave  him  a  lift  to  Ballarat.     Here  he  learned  that 


93 


something  like  a  fifth  part  of  liis  journey  had  been  accom- 
plished, though  he  had  spent  eight  da3's  upon  it,  despite 
the  help  he  had  received.  The  rest  had  restored  him,  and 
he  was  off  once  more  with  the  break  of  morning  light, 
filled  with  all  the  old  doggedness  of  resolve.  When  all 
was  said  and  done,  he  had  prospered  so  far,  and  a  faith 
began  to  awaken  in  him  that  he  would  finish  his  journey. 

It  is  very  doubtful  if  at  any  period  of  his  after  life  he 
could  have  told  the  story  of  that  journey  in  anj^  thing 
like  completeness.  He  ti*aversed  great  tracts  of  open 
wilderness,  and  threaded  his  way  through  huge  forests. 
He  met  with  constant  help  and  kindness,  and,  though  he 
was  often  hungry  and  athirst,  life  was  kept  in  him  some- 
how. The  moon  had  been  at  the  beginning  of  her  last 
quai'ter  when  he  had  started  on  his  journey,  but  at  one 
portion  of  it  night  after  night  he  walked  under  her  beauti- 
ful lamp,  having  learned  to  appreciate  the  advantage  of 
sleeping  through  the  heat  of  the  day.  Night  after  night, 
when  there  was  no  other  human  creature  within  miles,  the 
little  figure  toiled  along  with  that  one  mild,  unwinking 
eye  upon  him,  the  more  distant  glory  of  the  stars  all 
drowned  in  its  effulgence,  and  the  landscape  rolling  around 
him  wide  and  bare  as  far  as  eye  could  reach.  Then  Avhen 
the  moon's  fickle  time  of  rising  changed,  he  went  on  in 
the  sweltering  heat  again. 

Every-body  he  met  was  kind,  and  he  had  help  in  plent}'-  ; 
but  people,  when  they  questioned  him,  and  learned  on 
what  a  journey  he  had  embarked,  looked  at  him  with  a 
kind  of  wonder.  Once  when  he  was  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  Adelaide,  and  said  that  he  had  walked  from  Mel- 
bourne, he  was  roundly  denounced  as  a  liar,  and  was  just 
on  the  point  of  having  his  ears  cuffed,  when  the  arrival  of 
a  stranger  on  horseback  caused  a  diversion,  and  he  escaped 
an  undeserved  chastisement.  The  mounted  man  had  heard 
of  him  all  along  the  road,  and  asked,  at  the  first  sight  of 


94 


him,  if  that  was  the  little  chap  who  had  started  out  to 
walk  to  Adelaide.  On  this  the  i)eople  who  had  disbelieved 
made  him  an  instant  pet,  and  the  horseman,  riding  on  next 
morning,  told  his  story  in  advance,  so  that  people  looked 
out  for  him,  and  the  last  five  days  of  his  journey  were 
made  easy  by  many  casts  in  country  carts,  and  by  a  free- 
handed hosiDitality  which  allowed  him  to  want  for  nothing. 
He  was  questioned  again  and  again,  but  he  never  revealed 
his  name  or  his  real  purpose.  His  father  was  in  Adelaide, 
and  he  was  going  to  him  ;  that  was  all  his  story.  He  was 
not  a  lovable  little  boy  to  look  at,  with  his  snub  nose  and 
his  freckles  ;  and  long  before  this  time  the  respectable 
clothes  in  which  he  had  started  were  soiled  and  torn  ;  but 
the  amazing  courage  and  constancy  which  stood  in  such 
contrast  to  his  tender  years  found  him  favor  everywhere. 
A  friendly  teamster  gave  him  a  final  lift  into  the  long- 
sought  city. 

This  last  cast  of  the  journey  was  taken  by  night,  and 
the  boy  was  set  down  in  the  pale  dawn  within  half  a 
mile  of  the  jail.  He  made  all  haste  to  the  dismal  JNIecca 
of  his  pilgrimage,  found  the  pile  of  stones  he  liad  been 
accustomed  to  sit  on  weeks  ago,  and  resumed  his  old  place. 

The  day  broadened,  loiterers  came,  one  by  one,  and  two 
by  two,  and  hung  about  the  place.  At  length  quite  a 
crowd  had  gathered,  but  Evan,  dulled  b}^  want  of  sleep, 
noticed  little.  He  had  occupied  his  place  for  hours,  unre- 
garded by  any  body,  when  a  deep  "  Ah  !  "  rose  from  the 
scattered  crowd,  and,  looking  up,  he  saw  a  black  flag  float- 
ing over  the  prison  wall.  Something  knocked  within  his 
breast,  he  knew  not  what. 

"  That's  an  end  of  A/m,"  said  some  man  standing  near 
him. 

"  An  end  of  who  ?  "  asked  Evan. 

"  By  God  !  "  said  the  man  addressed,  "  that's  Evan 
Rhys's  kid — catch  him,  somebody  !  " 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  Comte  de  Montmeillard  was  splitting  rails  with  the 
view  to  the  erection  of  a  new  hogpen  when  a  mounted 
man  rode  into  Koollala  with  a  letter  addressed  to  the 
exile  by  his  full  style  and  title.  The  count  was  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  and  was  merrily  swinging  the  heavy  mallet 
which  drove  home  the  wedge  when  the  horseman  rode  up 
and  accosted  him. 

"  This  place  Koollala  ?  " 

"  This  is  Koollala,"  said  the  count,  pausing  in  his  labor, 
and  looking  up  with  his  never-failing  smile. 

"  I'm  told  that  there's  a  French  count  hereabouts,"  said 
the  man — "  the  Comte  de  Mont  something  or  other," 

"  I  am  he,"  returned  the  count  ;  "  do  you  wish  to  see 
me?     The  Comte  de  Montmeillard,  at  your  service." 

The  man  handed  him  the  letter.  He  broke  the  seal,  and 
read  the  contents  with  a  growing  look  of  amazement. 
Then,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  horseman,  he  began  to 
sing  in  his  own  tongue,  and  to  dance  and  caper  with 
extravagant  gestures.  For  the  moment  the  messenger  was 
half  inclined  to  think  him  mad. 

"  Petrovna,"  the  count  shouted,  "  come  here  !  " 

Petrovna  emerged  from  the  shanty,  his  hands  covered 
with  dough.  He  had  been  engaged  in  the  making  of  a 
damper  for  the  evening  meal. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"  I  have  news,"  said  the  count,  "  the  most  glorious,  the 
most  unexpected,  the  most  magnificent.  Behold  in  rae  the 
head  of  our  so  famous  and  historic  house.  My  uncle  is 
dead," 

95 


96 


"  Family  affection,"  said  Petrovna  grimly,  "  it  is  a 
beautiful  thing  !  " 

"  So  I  have  heard,"  the  count  responded.  "  There  is 
nothing  which  so  exalts  human  nature  as  the  existence  of 
the  family  tie.  For  instance,  the  present  case.  I,  hitlierto 
known  as  Frenchy,  Matey,  Ned,  am  exalted,  because  of 
that  same  tie,  into  the  style  and  title  of  Due  de  Marais 
Castel,  with  a  revenue  of  Heaven  alone  knows  how  many 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  francs  per  annum.  Rejoice  Avith 
me,  my  Petrovna.  We  will  go  to  Paris  together,  and  we 
will  start  a  propaganda.  I  will  pay  for  the  powder  to 
blow  up  your  Czar,  and,  ohe,  oho,  I  will  dine  once  more 
cliez  Bignon.  Think  of  it,  my  friend  :  I  shall  have  once 
more  under  mj^  feet  the  asphalt  of  Paris.  I  shall  flane, 
flane,  flane  !  The  pretty  Juliette  has  forgotten  me  by  this 
time,  but  there  is  more  than  one  pretty  Juliette  in  Paris. 
Paris,  my  good  friend, — no  disrespect  to  St.  Petersbuig 
intended, — is  the  centre  of  the  universe,  and  thither  all 
good  things,  all  things  charming  and  of  good  repute,  per- 
petually flow.  Thither  flow  I,  late  French}^  Due  de 
Marais  Castel.     Congratulate  me,  my  Petrovna." 

"  You  are  sure  of  the  amnesty  ?  "  Petrovna  asked. 

"  My  good,  sweet  sir,"  the  count  responded,  "  are  we 
not  now  in  the  days  of  the  Republic,  and  is  it  that  I  who 
was  a  declared  enemj'  of  the  Empire  shall  be  received  with 
any  thing  but  welcome?     Perish  the  thought !" 

He  was  in  reality  half  wild  with  this  unexpected  and 
unlooked-for  news,  and  for  the  first  two  or  throe  minutes 
of  his  delirium  the  beautiful  precision  of  his  English  left 
him  altogether.  He  spoke  in  English  because  he  knew 
that  the  deliverer  of  the  missive  would  understand  no  word 
of  French,  and  for  the  moment  he  was  proud  enough  of 
his  new-found  wealth  and  importance  to  desire  even  so 
humble  a  person  to  be  aware  of  his  consequence.  This 
was  a  little  curious,  and  yet  quite  natural.     He  had  borne 


97 


liis  misfortunes  like  a  hero  and  a  man  of  the  world,  but 
he  took  good-luck  with  the  effervescence  and  braggadocio 
of  a  school-boy. 

"  But  you,  my  Petrovna,"  he  said,  "  seem  in  no  way 
exalted  by  this  majestic  intelligence." 

"Why  should  I  be  exalted?"  Petrovna  asked.  "A 
good  man  will  be  sjioiled.  A  friend  of  the  people  will 
become  again  an  aristocrat." 

"  My  good  Petrovna,"  said  the  count,  "  a  man  who  is 
lucky  enough  to  get  it  ma}'  smoke  a  good  cigar,  may  drink 
a  glass  of  good  Burgundy,  may  eat  a  good  dinner,  and 
may  even  kiss  a  pretty  girl,  and  yet  not  cease  to  love  his 
bretliren.  We  march,  my  Petrovna,  we  march  to-day. 
Give  me  your  name,  my  friend,"  he  added,  turning  to  the 
horseman.  "  Unhappily,  at  this  moment  my  pockets  are 
empty,  but  if  you  care  for  pigs,  there  are  a  score  of  them 
at  your  service.  Here  is  a  freehold  tenement,  elegantly 
situated,  and  fashionably  furnished,  with  which  I  pi'esent 
30U.  This  estate,  sir,  is  3'our  property.  You  will  sell  it  if 
you  can.  You  may  reside  upon  it  if  you  will.  It  is  at 
3^our  disposal  from  this  moment." 

The  man  sat  in  his  saddle,  looking  down  upon  the  count 
with  an  uneasy,  half-bashful  grin. 

"  D'ye  mean  that,  governor  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  mean  it,"  the  count  returned,  with  a  burlesque 
flourish  ;  "  upon  my  word  and  honor,  I  will  make  it  over  to 
you  by  legal  document  at  any  moment.  I  have  no  further 
use  for  it.     Wait  until  I  write  you  a  letter." 

He  entered  the  shanty,  found  there  a  sheet  of  paper  and 
the  stump  of  an  old  pencil,  and  in  high  excitement  wrote 
a  dozen  lines  addressed  to  the  solicitor  in  Adelaide  from 
whom  he  had  received  his  splendid  news.  In  this  note  he 
requested  that  a  conveyance  should  be  sent  to  meet  him, 
stated  his  intention  of  starting  at  once  on  foot,  and 
expressed  his  desire  that  whatever  property  he  left  behind 
7 


98 


him  in  Koollala  should  be  legally  made  over  to  the  bearer 
of  the  missive. 

Away  galloped  the  horseman,  and  the  gay  youngster 
dashed  into  the  bouse  again,  flung  together  a  few  trifles, — 
brush,  comb,  tooth-brush,  soap,  and  towel, — and,  tying 
all  these  up  together,  proclaimed  himself  ready  to 
leave. 

"  Come  along,  my  Petrovna.  We  start  to-day  for 
Paris,  the  centre  of  the  universe  !  " 

"  And  what,"  asked  Petrovna,  with  unusual  solemnity, 
"  shall  we  do  when  we  get  there  ?  " 

"We  shall  eat  and  drink  and  be  merr^^"  cried  the  count, 
"and  we  shall  spread  the  propaganda.  We  will  have 
pleasant  days,  my  friend,  in  Paris." 

Petrovna  went  about  his  preparations  slowl}',  and  with 
an  air  of  great  unwillingness. 

"You  will  change,"  he  said.  "I  foresee  it;  you  will 
change." 

"  Change  ?  "  cried  the  count.     "  Not  I !  " 

He  grew  serious  on  a  sudden,  and  laid  both  hands  on 
his  companion's  shoulders. 

"Look  you  here,  my  good  Petrovna.  Listen  to  me.  I 
have  been  now  all  these  years  an  exile,  and  j^ou  must  not 
think  because  I  am  bright  and  guy  sometimes  that  there 
is  no  bitterness  in  my  heart.  You  must  not  think  that 
because  I  have  lived  with  the  poorest  I  have  ceased  to 
think  of  the  poor.  You  must  not  think  I  shall  forget  the 
faith  we  have  talked  of  so  often.  No,  no,  j'ou  shall  not 
think  these  things,  Petrovna."  He  released  Petrovna's 
shoulders,  and  held  out  both  hands  to  him  impetuously. 
Petrovna  took  them  with  a  yearning  smile,  shook  them 
once  up  and  down,  and  turned  away. 

"Now,"  cried  the  count,  "let  us  march  !  The  world  is 
all  before  us  where  to  choose,  and  I  choose  Paris.  En 
avant  !  " 


99 


Tliey  left  the  door  standing  wide  ojjen.  They  walked 
out  together. 

"  But,  oho  !  "  cried  the  count,  before  they  had  travelled 
a  score  of  yards,  "  who  is  to  take  care  of  my  faithful 
porkers  ?  They  will  die  of  thirst  if  they  are  not  seen 
to." 

He  turned,  and,  running,  shouted  to  a  neighbor,  who,  at 
a  distance  of  a  hundred  yards,  was  at  work  in  his  own 
garden.  The  man  lifted  up  his  voice  in  answer,  and 
undertook  during:  the  count's  absence  to  take  chartje  of 
his  belongings.  Then,  with  no  farewell  spoken,  the 
Comte  de  Montmeillard  turned  his  back  upon  Koollala, 
and  set  his  face  toward  the  goal  of  his  desires, 

Petrovna  walked  with  a  subdued  aii",  his  massive  fore- 
head wrinkled,  and  his  eyes  cast  down  upon  the  ground. 
His  companion  went  with  something  of  a  dance  in  his 
gait,  snapping  his  fingers,  and  breaking  into  short  bursts 
of  song.  At  the  end  of  the  first  mile  or  thereabouts  he 
also  became  silent  and  thoughtful,  and  when  they  had 
tramped  another  mile  without  speaking,  he  laid  a  hand 
upon  Petrovna's  arm. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  he  said. 

"  I  knew  it,"  returned  the  Russian,  casting  a  gloomy 
and  regretful  look  upon  him. 

*'  I  have  been  thinking,"  said  the  count,  with  a  touch  of 
irritation  and  impatience  in  his  tone,  "  that  we  might  be 
of  service  to  the  world  at  large  in  perhaps  a  more  good- 
humored  way  than  we  have  fancied." 

"Yes,"  said  Petrovna,  "that  is  certainly  possible.  If  I 
were  still  at  your  age,  and  if  I  had  your  news,  I  should 
think  so.  I  told  you  you  would  change,  but  I  did  not 
think  you  would  justify  my  prophecy  so  earh'." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  returned  the  count,  in  irritated 
expostulation,  "  I  have  done  something  for  my  political 
ideas.     I  have  suffered  something  for  them.     I  am  not 


100 


yet  an  old  man,  and  I  don't  see  why  I  should  not  enjoy 
such  part  of  uiy  youth  as  is  left  to  me  since  the  chance  of 
enjoyment  once  more  presents  itself.  But  3'ou,  man  of 
blood  and  iron  that  3'ou  are,  you  shall  have  the  sinews  of 
war.     You  shall  preach  and  labor  as  much  as  you  will." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Petrovna,  "  we  sliall  see." 

Tliey  were  botli  uneas}'^,  and  from  this  time  forward 
they  marched  on  side  by  side  in  silence,  until  they  emerged 
from  the  bush,  and  came  in  sight  of  the  Pentliearn  Station. 
There,  far  awa}',  half  across  the  big  paddock,  a  little 
figure  painfully  crawled  toward  them,  and  Petrovna,  lift- 
ing up  his  eyes  at  the  end  of  a  prolonged  revery,  observed 
it  with  astonishment. 

"Look  yonder  !  "  he  cried  ;  "your  eyes  are  younger  than 
mine,  but  surely  I  am  not  mistaken." 

The  count's  glance  followed  the  direction  of  Petrovna's 
extended  hand,  and  he  also  exclaimed,  and  started. 

"  Wliat  brings  that  unfortunate  young  imp  back  here 
again  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Heaven  knows,"  returned  Petrovna,  "but  I  was  not 
mistaken." 

They  increased  their  pace,  and  in  a  very  little  while 
were  assured  of  their  conjecture.  The  tattered  and  woe- 
begone figure  of  Evan  Rhys  drew  near.  The  boy  walked 
painfully,  limping  and  halting,  and  when  at  last  the 
travellers  met,  it  was  seen  that  under  the  tan  of  his  thickly 
freckled  skin  he  was  i)ale.  There  was  a  deep  fringe  of 
color  round  his  suidvcn  eyes,  and  his  lips  were  of  an 
unwholesome  bluish  tint.  The  count  laid  a  hand  upon 
him,  or  he  would  have  gone  by, 

"  What  brings  you  here  ?  "  he  asked.  "  IIow  did  you 
get  back  from  Melbourne  ?  " 

"  Walked,"  said  young  Evan. 

"  Walked  !"  the  count  echoed  in  astonishment.  "But 
why — what  for  ?  " 


101 


"  I  wasn't  going  to  leave  dad,"  the  boy  answered,  "  not 
while  he  was  there.     I  told  'em  so." 

The  count  knelt  down  upon  the  grass,  and  took  young 
Evan  gently  by  the  elbows. 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ?" 

"  To  Koollala,"  Evan  responded  curtly. 

"  But,  my  poor  little  fellow,"  said  the  count,  "  there  is 
nobody  now  at  Koollala  who  cares  for  you,  or  who  can 
keep  you.     Que  faut  il  faire,  Petrovna  ?  " 

Petrovna  shook  his  head  in  answer  to  the  enquiry,  and 
spread  his  hands  abroad,  as  if  he  resigned  the  problem. 

"  Wednesday,"  said  the  count,  speaking  in  French,  "  was 
the  day  appointed  for  the  execution.  The  child  is  left 
absolutely  alone  in  the  world.  He  is  a  brave  little  fellow, 
and  an  affectionate  little  fellow.  I  cannot  leave  him  here 
to  starve.  It's  against  human  nature.  Why  did  you  run 
away,  ray  silly  little  fellow  ? "  he  continued  in  English, 
turning  to  the  boy  as  he  spoke,  and  putting  one  arm  about 
his  shoulders.  "  You  would  have  been  happj'^  and  well-to- 
do.  I  had  found  a  rich  friend  for  you.  You  Avould  have 
gone  to  school,  and  learned  many  useful  things,  and  would 
have  grown  up  to  be  useful  and  respectable." 

"  They  took  me  away  from  dad,"  said  the  boy,  with  a 
sort  of  dull  defiance  in  his  tone.  "  I  wouldn't  stand  it. 
You  wouldn't  ha'  stood  it.     Nobody  would  ha'  stood  it." 

"At  least,"  said  the  count,  "it  is  of  no  use  to  go  to 
Koollala,  my  little  Evan.  You  will  come  with  me,  will 
you  not  ?  You  and  I  have  always  been  the  best  of  friends, 
and  there  is  now  nobody  left  to  look  after  you.  You  will 
come  with  me." 

"  Yes,"  said  Evan,  thrusting  his  dirty  little  paw  into 
the  count's  extended  hand.  His  throat  and  lips  worked, 
and  his  eyes  twinkled,  but  he  gave  no  other  sign  of  emo- 
tion. Montmeillard  rose  to  his  feet,  still  holding  the  dirty 
paw  for  an  instant.     The    sun-burned   landscape  winked 


102 


before  him,  and  was  seen  all  awry  through  a  mist  of  thin 
trees.  Young  Evan  followed  the  example  of  his  com- 
panions, and  set  his  back  against  Koollala  forever. 

The  first  day's  journey  was  toilsome,  and  was  accom- 
plished with  some  difficulty.  Next  day  the  buggy  the 
count  had  sent  for  met  them,  and  they  Avent  on  at  ease. 
That  evening  landed  them  in  the  South  Australian  capital. 
There  Montmeillard  encountered  the  solicitor  who  had  sent 
him  the  news  of  his  accession  to  the  fortune,  and,  at  once 
obtaining  an  advance  of  money,  he  betook  himself  to  an 
outfitter,  by  whose  aid  for  the  first  time  for  eight  years  he 
was  habited  once  more  like  a  gentleman.  Petrovna  and 
young  Evan  were  also  provided  for,  and  the  trio  went  to 
an  hotel,  where  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel  and  his  com- 
panions were  received  with  a  welcome  wliich  would  scarcely 
have  been  extended  to  the  three  forlorn-looking  wanderers 
who  had  entered  the  city  only  an  hour  or  two  before. 

The  novel  splendors  of  his  surroundings  abashed  the 
boy,  and  made  him  feel  dreadfully  uncomfortable.  He 
had  been  bred  very  much  like  a  young  savage,  and  the 
glass  and  silver  and  snowy  napery  of  tlie  first  civilized 
table  at  which  he  had  ever  sat  filled  him  with  astonish- 
ment. He  rebelled  at  these  things,  and  thought  that  he 
had  never  been  so  ill  at  ease  in  his  life.  He  was  more  than 
half  afraid  to  sleep  in  the  bod  provided  for  him,  though 
b}''  and  by,  being  alone,  he  learned  to  appreciate  tliat 
luxury,  Petrovna,  Nihilist  and  Communist  as  he  was,  had 
no  rooted  objection  for  once  to  a  good  dinner,  a  glass  of 
sound  wine,  and  a  reasonable  cigar  ;  and  after  dinner, 
when  Evan  had  been  sent  to  bed,  the  Russian  and  his 
newly  wealthy  companion  sat  on  the  veranda  of  the  hotel 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  and  under  the  quiet  stars  dis- 
cussed young  Evan's  future. 

"  It  would  be  best,"  said  Petrovna,  "  to  put  him  to 
school  here.     You  can  easily  provide  for  him  now." 


103 


"  No,"  the  other  declared,  with  some  heat,  "  he  shall 
not  stay  in  these  colonies,  where  his  father  has  been  hanged 
for  murder,  and  his  mother  lies  in  penal  servitude.  These 
things  are  not  the  fault  of  the  child  ;  but  the  record  is  not 
a  pretty  one.  I  will  take  him  away,  and  provide  for  him 
in  England.  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  reaching  out  his  hand 
toward  a  tumbler  of  iced  brandy  and  soda — "  I  am  sorry  in 
my  heart  for  the  little  beggar.  Ohe,  my  Petrovna,  it  is  a 
happy  thing  to  have  a  little  money,  and  be  able  to  do  a 
little  good  with  it." 

"  Do  you  remember,"  asked  Petrovna, "  a  certain  injunc- 
tion which  was  laid  upon  a  young  man  who  had  great 
riches  ?  Give  all  that  thou  hast  to  the  poor,  and  follow 
me." 

"  I  remember,"  Montmeillard  answered,  "  that  the  young 
man  went  away  sorrowful.  For  my  own  part,  I  see  no 
reason  to  go  away  sorrowful.  I'm  going  away  to  be  as 
happy  as  I  can.  I  can  do  my  little  bit  of  good  in  my  own 
way,  and  you,  my  dear  fellow,  shall  do  yours  as  you  please. 
If  you  blow  up  your  Czar,  I  shall  neither  rejoice  nor  grieve, 
but  there  will  be  another  Czar  to-morrow,  and  if  you  blow 
him  up,  there  will  be  another  the  day  after." 

Petrovna  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  was  silent.  The 
young  Frenchman  and  he  had  had  many  talks  together, 
and  hitherto  Montmeillard  had  been  the  reddest  of  red 
revolutionists.  He  had  grown  to  be  an  indifferentist 
already,  and  once  back  in  Paris  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he 
would  become  at  heart  an  aristocrat. 

M.  le  Due  de  Marais  Castel  could  not  for  the  life  of  him 
help  being  a  personage.  He  would,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
have  given  a  good  deal  to  be  left  alone,  but  consideration 
was  thrust  upon  him,  and  he  had  no  chance  to  escape  from 
it.  Deputations  of  curious  and  congratulatorj^  citizens 
waited  upon  him  at  his  hotel.  Interviewers  from  news- 
papers without  number  called   to  make  enquiry  into  his 


104 


family  history  and  tlie  political  romance  of  liis  own  career. 
The  newspapers  were  full  of  him.  He  was  respectfully 
mobbed  in  the  streets,  and  his  departure  from  the  cit}^  was 
made  the  occasion  for  a  general  demonstration.  All  this 
had  a  rather  damaging  effect  upon  liis  temper,  for  in  the 
course  of  his  years  of  exile  he  had  lost  something  of  that 
fine  sense  of  savoir  /aire  which  had  once  belonged  to  him, 
and  he  was  no  longer  as  much  at  home  when  beleaguered 
by  a  crowd  as  he  had  been.  He  was  plentifully  supplied 
with  money,  and,  with  the  easy  generosity  of  extravagance 
which  had  always  been  natural  to  him,  he  had  engaged 
saloon  berths,  not  only  for  himself  and  his  bod^^-servant, 
but  for  Petrovna  and  young  Evan.  Petrovna  chose  to  be 
sullen  about  this  matter. 

"I  am  of  the  people,  and  I  do  not  separate  myself  from 
the  people,  or  give  mj'self  airs  above  the  people.  What 
is  good  enougli  for  the  poorest  of  ra}'^  brethi'en  is  good 
enough  for  me." 

The  temper  of  ]\[.  le  Due  was  that  morning  a  little  short, 
and  when  Petrovna  declared,  with  perhaps  more  than 
necessary  emphasis,  that,  if  he  travelled  at  all,  he  would 
travel  b}-  the  steerage,  he  M'as  told  with  sudden  acerbity 
tliat  he  miglit  go  to  the  devil.  Petrovna  did  not  avail 
himself  of  the  permission  thus  given,  but  he  went  to  the 
shipping  office,  and  with  some  difficulty  succeeded  in  per- 
suading the  authorities  there  to  exchange  the  two  first- 
class  berths  which  liad  been  taken  for  Evan  and  himself 
for  room  in  the  steerage.  The  generous  patron  thought 
he  had  a  right  to  be  aggrieved  at  this,  and  showed  it  in  his 
manner. 

It  seemed  as  if  fate  had  it  in  charge  to  make  the  very 
name  of  gentleman  odious  to  young  Evan.  That  most 
charming,  amiable,  and  sympathetic  of  friends  who  had 
once  been  simply  known  to  liim  as  Frenchy  was  now  a 
person  of  consideration,  and  was  instantaneously  changed 


105 


in  character  and  manner.  It  was  not  the  boy's  fault  that 
he  thouglit  this,  for,  like  other  chiklren,  he  took  his  mental 
color  from  his  elders,  and  Petrovna  grumbled  incessantly. 

"It  is  the  same,"  he  said,  "everywhere  and  always. 
While  he  himself  was  one  of  the  people,  he  had  a  heart 
for  the  people,  and  now  he  is  changed.  He  is  once  again 
an  aristocrat." 

"  What's  an  aristocrat  ?  "  asked  3' oung  Evan. 

"An  aristocrat,  my  little  friend,"  responded  Petrovna, 
"  is  one  of  those  who  cause  all  the  sufferings  of  the  poor. 
They  do  nothing,  and  they  claim  every  thing.  You  must 
bow  to  them.  You  must  worship  them.  You  must  stand 
with  your  hat  in  your  hand  before  them.  You  must  live 
in  sweat  and  misery  that  the}^  iiiay  be  happy  and  idle." 

The  boy  mused  over  all  this  for  a  long  time. 

"  I  liked  '  Frenchy,'  "  he  said  at  last.  "  He  wasn't  half  a 
bad  sort." 

"No,"  returned  Petrovna,  "there  are  many  of  them 
whose  hearts  are  in  the  right  place,  but  they  are  spoiled 
by  their  titles  and  their  money." 

The  maligned  Frenchman  was  not  at  hand  to  justify 
himself.  He  sailed  in  the  same  ship  ;  and  sometimes  from 
their  lower  quarters  the  steerage  passengers  caught  sight 
of  him  on  the  upper  deck  in  company  with  gayly  dressed 
ladies  or  in  converse  with  the  captain.  The  child's  mind 
was  already  attuned  to  a  sullen  chord.  His  father's  last 
words  had  taught  him  that  the  rich  were  execrable.  He 
was  an  orphan  because  the  rich  were  tyrannous  and 
wicked,  and  everywhere  he  found  the  same  lesson  repeated. 
It  was  a  man  who,  like  the  new-translated  Frenchy,  was 
rich  and  titled  who  had  torn  him  from  all  that  was  left 
after  his  father's  condemnation,  and  who  had  caused  him 
that  month  of  agony  in  which  he  had  struggled  back  to 
Adelaide.  A  cliild  knows  little  how  to  reason,  but  at 
least   he  can   feel  ;  and    Evan   felt  that   these  rich    were 


106 


altogether  hateful  and  abominable.  When  he  came  to  be 
a  man,  he  would  do  something.  He  would  punish  some  of 
them.  They  should  not  always  sit  in  high  places,  and 
be  happy  and  idle,  while  common  people  suffered.  It  is 
hard  to  translate  the  thoughts  of  a  child,  but,  vague  as 
his  reflections  were,  and  little  as  he  could  himself  have 
expressed  them,  they  were  inspired  by  a  genuine  passion. 
Petrovna  told  him  stories  of  his  own  sufferings  in  Siberia, 
and  of  the  wretchedness  of  his  fellow-exiles.  They,  of 
course,  were  all  saints  and  angels,  and  it  Avas  the  immeasur- 
ably wicked  Czar  who  was  responsible  for  all  they  endured. 
The  Czar  was  Petrovna's  red  rag,  and  at  the  merest 
flutter  of  his  name  his  mind  lost  its  balance,  and  was  filled 
with  hate  and  fury.  At  many  of  the  stories  he  heard  in 
the  course  of  the  seven-weeks'  journey  young  Evan  cried. 

"In  m}^  country,"  Petrovna  told  him,  "there  are  hun- 
dreds, there  are  tliousands,  of  little  boys  as  small  and  as 
young  as  you  are,  and  they  are  all  alone  in  the  world,  and 
helpless,  because  the  Czar  has  stolen  away  their  fathers 
and  mothers,  and  has  given  them  to  misery." 

The  little  listener  wept  his  own  misfortunes  in  bewailing 
theirs,  and  was  roused  to  a  sudden  fit  of  rage. 

"If  I  was  you,"  he  said,  with  his  wliite  milk  teeth 
clenched,  and  his  small  fists  in  the  air — "  if  I  was  you,  and 
lived  in  your  country,  I  should  kill  that  Czar.  I'd  buy  a 
knife  and  kill  him.  They  might  do  what  they  liked  to  me 
after,  but  Pd  kill  him." 

"  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings,"  said  Boris 
Petrovna  to  himself,  with  a  quiet  solemnity  of  approval  ; 
and  with  that  curious  reflection  he  went  on  deck  to  smoke 
a  last  pipe  before  turning  in. 


CHAPTER  X 

When  a  man  is  fixed  and  obstinate  in  his  determination 
to  have  a  grievance,  it  is  not  gasy  to  prevent  him  from  tak- 
ing his  own  way.  Boris  Petrovna  had  formed  such  a 
resolve,  and  in  the  solitude  of  the  homeward  voyage  he 
found  ample  opportunity  for  the  irritation  of  his  own  self- 
created  sore.  The  genial  and  generous  comrade  of  the 
past  half  year,  the  man  who  had  succored  him  at  his  need, 
and  had  shared  his  own  very  limited  resources  with  him 
ever  since,  was  obscured  to  Petrovna's  view  altogether  by 
the  figure  of  the  new-made  Due  de  Marais  Castel.  It 
was  not  that  the  man  was  natively  selfish,  ungenerous,  or 
ungrateful.  For  his  own  satisfaction  he  was  able  to  put 
the  noblest  complexion  on  the  change  which  had  taken 
place  within  him.  He  was  a  democrat  of  the  democrats, 
and  to  him  all  titles  which  marked  differences  between 
men  were  hateful.  The  possession  of  riches,  howsoever 
acquired,  was  the  vilest  of  crimes  against  the  bod}^  politic. 
There  are  a  good  many  thousands  of  people  nowadays 
who  have  learned  to  share  these  opinions,  but  there  are  not 
many  who  hold  them,  or,  to  speak  more  wiseh',  whom 
they  hold,  with  such  intensity  as  was  manifested  in  Pe- 
trovna's case.  Petrovna's  ideal  of  a  social  landscape  was  a 
plain  as  level  as  a  billiard-table.  He  Avould  not  have  had 
its  sacred  monotony  disturbed  by  so  much  as  a  hillock,  and 
that  a  mountain  should  presume  to  be  a  mountain  in  defi- 
ance of  his  logical  theories  was  like  a  blasphemy.  The 
Due  de  Marais  Otistel  was  a  mere  bubble,  an  airy  some- 
thing blown  out  by  chance.  Yet  even  him  he  could  not 
tolerate.     The  title  was  a  stench  in  his  nostrils.     The  con- 

lor 


108 


templation  of  liis  wealth  grew  to  be  odious.  The  friend  of 
a  month  ago  was  now  worthy  of  all  hatred,  and  was  in  all 
possible  ways  to  be  pricked  and  stung  and  girded  at,  and 
made  to  feel  the  monstrous  wickedness  and  falsit}'^  of  his 
own  position.  What  made  matters  all  the  worse  for  the 
righteously  indignant  Petrovna  was  that  the  steerage  had 
no  access  to  the  first  saloon,  and  that  for  some  weeks  of  the 
voyage  the  first  saloon  in  the  person  of  the  new-fledged 
nobleman  paid  no  visit  to  the  steerage.  Petrovna  used  to 
dilate  to  little  Evan,  who  was  his  only  companion,  on  the 
wickedness  of  rank  and  wealth,  and  the  two  sometimes 
would  see  the  figure  of  the  duke  on  the  upper  deck,  where 
he  stood  smoking  a  cigar  with  the  captain,  or  engaged  in 
bright  badinage  and  laughter  with  a  group  of  gayly  dressed 
ladies.  The  little  fellow  had  been  very  fond  of  Frenchy 
from  his  first  acquaintance  with  him.  He  had  always 
found  him  kind  and  sweet-tempered,  and  these  Avere  char- 
acteristics which  had  not  cropped  up  everywhere  in  his 
limited  ex2:»erience.  But  now  it  seemed  that  there  was  a 
gulf  between  them,  and  it  was  clear  as  daylight  that  the 
gulf  was  made  by  the  wicked  title  and  the  still  wickeder 
money.  All  the  lessons  of  his  own  life  pointed  in  the  same 
direction.  For  his  own  part,  the  duke  called  to  mind  as 
often  as  might  liave  been  expected  those  two  proteges  who 
had  wilfully  witlidrawn  themselves  from  his  society.  He 
had  been  a  little  sore  at  first  at  Petrovna's  behavior,  but  in 
his  own  careless  fashion  he  had  whistled  away  the  griev- 
ance. For  the  first  time  for  eight  years  he  found  himself 
once  again  in  fairly  civilized  society.  The  people  with 
Avhom  he  travelled  were  commonplace,  bourgeois  folk 
enough,  but  they  were  all  respectable  and  well  to-do,  and 
if  in  his  own  sense  they  were  not  exacth'  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, they  had  at  least  the  surface  mafiner  of  people  Avho 
were  accustomed  to  move  in  good  society,  and  he  found 
that  an  acceptable  change  from  the  manners  and  customs 


109 


of  the  convict  settlement  of  New  Caledonia,  or  the 
scarcely  less  j^enal  existence  of  Koollala.  He  was  going 
back  to  his  regretted  Paris,  returning  thither  for  the  enjoy- 
ment of  heaps  of  money  and  an  old  and  honored  title.  He 
had  in  his  hot  youth  been  a  revolutionary,  partly  because 
he  had  been  bred  in  ideas  profoundly  aristocratic,  and 
therefore  hated  the  gimcrack  glories  of  the  second  empire, 
partly  because  he  honestly  thought  the  third  Napoleon  a 
usurper  and  a  scoundrel,  but  mainly  because  he  was  poor 
and  discontented.  Now,  being  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
rich  beyond  any  dream  he  had  ever  dared  to  dream,  he 
began  to  feel  mightily  more  contented  with  the  world.  A 
spirit  naturally  vivacious,  and  disposed  to  clothe  things 
in  bright  colors  on  the  slightest  provocation,  spread  the 
immediate  future  with  such  roseate  hues  that  it  would 
have  seemed  a  crime  to  darken  them  by  any  cloud  of 
politics.  He  had  had  enough  of  active  politics,  so  he  began 
to  think,  to  last  him  his  lifetime.  The  analysis  is  the 
shallowest  and  the  most  commonplace  in  the  world.  He 
had  been  without  the  good  things  of  this  life,  and  had  thus 
been  discontented  ;  he  came  in  for  more  than  his  full  share 
of  those  good  things,  and  his  discontent  vanished  like  a 
morning  mist.  He  began  to  think  well  of  those  inequali- 
ties in  life  which  had  once  seemed  so  monstrous  and 
unbearable — that  is  to  saj%  a  change  took  place  in  him 
which,  the  conditions  being  granted,  would  take  place  in 
nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  men  in  a  thousand.  He 
had  got  over  his  soreness  at  Petrovna's  desertion,  and  on 
one  fine  day  in  the  tropics  he  made  up  his  mind  to  pay 
a  visit  to  \\\%  proteges.  He  induced  an  officer  of  the  ship  to 
accompany  him,  and  made  his  way  to  the  steerage.  There 
he  found  Petrovna  and  Evan  seated  over  a  draught-board. 
They  were  both  absorbed  in  the  game,  and  the  Russian  was 
instructing  the  boy  in  some  detail  of  its  principles,  when  his 
old  companion's  hand  descended  genially  upon  his  shoulder. 


110 


"  Well,  mon  brave,  how  goes  it  ?  " 

Petrovua  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  the  once  familiar 
voice,  and  rose,  cap  in  hand,  with  a  mock  humility. 

"  It  is  very  gracious  in  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel  to 
remember  his  humble  friends." 

The  Due  de  Marais  Castel  felt  the  sneer  implied,  but, 
not  being  disposed  to  be  suddenly  resentful,  he  pretended 
not  to  notice  it,  and  turned  to  Evan.  The  boy  edged 
away  from  him,  and  the  ship  lurching  a  little  at  that 
moment  upset  the  camp-stool  he  had  been  sitting  on,  so 
that  he  tumbled  harmlessly  to  the  deck.  His  patron 
helped  him  to  his  feet,  but  Evan  recoiled  again  with  everj'- 
sign  of  stiffness  and  aversion. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  the  duke  asked,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other,  and  speaking  in  his  own  language.  "  Is  it  ray 
fault  that  we  have  not  been  companions  all  along  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  guessed,"  said  Petrovna,  "  that  your  Excellency 
would  so  emphatically  have  remembered  3'our  Excellency's 
place  and  mine,  I  would  have  stayed  behind,  or  would  have 
found  some  other  way  to  Europe." 

"  Olie  !  "  said  the  duke,  "  I  was  not  aware  that  you 
Russians  counted  ingratitude  among  the  virtues.'* 

"  Your  Excellency  and  I,"  said  Petrovna,  "  are — no  fit 
companions." 

"  That  shall  be  as  it  may,"  the  other  retorted.  "  I  had 
thought  you  were  a  better  fellow,  Petrovna.  The  change 
in  my  circumstances  has  not  altered  me,  and  I  had  hoped 
that  it  would  not  have  altered  you." 

"  Bah  !  "  said  Petrovna  gruffly,  "  it  has  altered  both  of 
us.  I  prophesied  in  my  own  mind  exactly  what  would 
happen  on  the  day  when  we  left  Koollala." 

Kow,  his  Excellency  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  lie 
had  neglected  Petrovna  and  young  Evan,  and,  being  aware 
of  it,  he  was  naturally  all  the  more  angry  at  having  it 
brought  to  mind.     He  became  for  a  moment  very  injured 


Ill 


and  stately,  and  Avith  a  bow  to  tlie  Russian  he  turned 
round  on  young  Evan. 

"  You  must  come  and  see  me,"  he  said,  with  a  brightness 
and  geniality  of  manner  which  were  not  altogether  real. 
Children  are  quick  to  see  through  this  kind  of  assumption, 
and  Evan  read  the  manner  perfectly,  and  recognized  the 
restraint  which  lay  under  it. 

"  We  shall  see,"  pursued  the  peacemaker,  "  if  Ave  can't 
find  something  good  for  our  young  Evan.  We  Avill  go 
and  consult  the  cook,  eh  ?  What  shall  we  say  to  gx-apes 
and  bananas  ?  What  shall  we  say  to  apples  and  pears  ? 
And  what,  oh,  what  shall  Ave  say  to  a  Maraschino  jelly  ?  " 

Young  Evan  responded  to  none  of  these  queries,  but, 
with  a  defensive  elbow  raised,  he  looked  across  his  arm  at 
the  smiling  wickedness  before  him.  The  duke  had  fallen 
on  one  knee  to  address  him,  but  at  this  reception  of  his 
friendly  overtures  he  rose  from  the  deck  and  turned,  Avitli 
a  somewhat  loAvering  countenance,  on  Petrovna. 

"  The  bo}'^,  at  least,"  he  said,  returning  to  his  own 
language,  "  has  no  reason  to  regard  me  Avith  anything 
but  gratitude.  You  have  poisoned  his  mind  against 
me,  and  I  choose  to  remove  him  from  your  influence. 
Mr.  Sparks  !  " 

The  officer,  avIio  had  been  lounging  at  a  little  distance, 
Avatching  with  some  interest  a  scene  he  only  half  compre- 
hended, stepped  forward. 

"  There  is,  I  believe,  an  empty  state-room  next  to 
mine  ?" 

"  There  is,  sir,"  Mr.  Sparks  replied. 

"  Kindly  see  the  purser  or  the  captain,  or  whomsoever  it 
may  be  necessary  to  see,  and  arrange  that  this  boy  shall  be 
placed  there.  I  wish  to  have  him  near  me  for  the  remain- 
der of  the  vo3'age." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  the  ofiicer  answered,  and,  being  requested  to 
make  the  arrangement  at  once,  departed  for  that  purpose. 


112 


The  duke,  with  a  curt  nod  of  tlie  bead  to  Petrovna, 
followed. 

When  the  time  came  for  his  removal  from  Petrovna's 
society  in  the  steerage,  Evan  yelled,  fought,  and  struggled. 
The  ship  rang  with  his  protestations,  and  two  laughing 
sailors  bore  him,  leg  and  wing,  plunging  and  bowling  at 
each  step,  to  his  new  quarters.  For  a  whole  day  be  was 
sulky  and  unmanageable,  and  refused  whatever  overtures 
of  friendship  were  made  to  him.  Finding  after  two  or 
three  abortive  attempts  at  escape  that  he  was  to  be  kept 
in  the  more  luxurious  compartment  to  which  be  had  been 
conveyed,  he  bolted  himself  in,  and  refused  all  communica- 
tion with  the  outer  world. 

The  cajitain  at  the  dinner-table  that  nigbt  counselled 
the  ai3plication  of  a  stout  rojje's  end  as  the  best  medicine 
for  the  young  cub's  insubordination  ;  but  on  the  following 
day  hunger  drew  the  small  badger  from  his  den,  and,  being 
pi'ovided  with  such  a  breakfast  as  he  had  rarely  made 
acquaintance  with  before,  be  began  to  find  his  allegiance 
to  Petrovna  weaken.  The  duke  assailed  bim  with  an 
irrestible  weight  of  argument. 

"  You  can  stop  here  and  be  good  and  happy,"  said  his 
patron,  "or  you  can  stop  here  and  be  foolish  and  unhappy, 
but  you  shall  stop  here  in  any  case.  Nothing  is  being 
done  to  you  Avbich  is  not  meant  for  your  good." 

In  the  depths  of  his  own  mind  his  Excellency  knew 
very  well  that  bis  one  active  impulse  was  to  break  the 
small  imp's  wilful  spirit,  but  he  didn't  care  to  proclaim 
that  fact. 

"  So  long  as  you  are  good  and  quiet  every-body  will  be 
kind  to  you.  If  you  like  to  stop  and  sulk  in  your  own 
room,  you  can  starve.  Nobody  will  try  to  hinder  you  if 
3'ou  are  silly  enough  to  do  it.  It  is  quite  in  your  own 
hands.  You  shall  be  a  good  boy  or  a  naughty  boy,  just  as 
you  like.     If  you  are  a  good  boy,  every-body  will  try  to 


113 


make  you  happy.  If  you  are  a  nauglity  boy,  nobod}^  will 
care  how  miserable  jou  are." 

"  I  want  to  go  back  to  Petrovna." 

"  You  will  not  be  allowed  to  go  back  to  Petrovna," 
returned  his  patron.  "  You  had  better  understand  that  at 
once.  Now,  you  can  be  good  and  liappy,  or  unhappy  and 
miserable,  just  as  you  like.  That  is  your  affair,  my  young 
Evan." 

Young  Evan,  like  older  people,  succumbed  to  irresistible 
authority,  and  by  and  by  began  to  like  it.  A  child  of  eight 
may  have  had  instilled  into  him  the  most  admirable  princi- 
ples of  radicalism  and  anarchy,  and  may  yet  find  the  flesh- 
pots  of  Egypt  desirable,  and  their  contents  toothsome.  As 
a  matter  of  course,  he  took  his  meals  in  the  ship's  nurser}^, 
but  when  once  he  had  shown  signs  of  subjection,  his  pro- 
tector took  lavish  care  of  him,  and  all  manner  of  delicacies 
were  sent  to  him  from  the  saloon  luncheon-table,  and  his 
provision  from  the  dessert  after  dinner  was  liberal  enough 
to  rejoice  the  whole  mob  of  the  ship's  infantry. 

The  young  Evan,  being  thus  entrapped,  like  the  panther 
in  the  fable,  by  the  spices  and  luxury,  remained  for  a 
while  more  or  less  well  content.  At  times  his  conscience 
pricked  him,  and  sometimes  when  he  saw  Petrovna  loung- 
ing about  lonely  on  the  lower  deck  he  felt  guilty  of  deser- 
tion, without  being  quite  able  to  accuse  himself  of  any 
real  dereliction  from  friendship.  He  had  only  done  what 
he  had  been  obliged  to  do,  and  had  only  discovered  that, 
on  the  whole,  he  was  glad  to  have  been  compelled  b}^  force. 
Except  that  he  was  strictly  forbidden  to  leave  that  portion 
of  the  ship  which  was  set  apart  for  the  first-class  passengers, 
he  had  ample  freedom,  and  was  allowed  to  wander  about 
exactly  as  he  would. 

It  happened  one  sweltering  tropic  night,  when  the  ship 
was  swishing  through  an  oily  sea  and  under  a  starless  and 
moonless  sky,  that  he  lounged  as  far  aft  as  his  boundaries 
8 


114 


permitted,  and  there,  peering  through  the  rail,  saw  Pe- 
trovna  seated  below,  smoking,  within  a  yard  or  two  of 
him.  The  Russian  was  alone,  and  just  dimly  visible  in  the 
light  of  a  swinging  lamp.  Evan  looked  cautiously  about 
him  in  the  close  dark,  and,  seeing  nobody  near,  ventured  to 
call  out : 

"  Matey  !     I  say,  Matey  !  " 

This  was  in  a  guarded  wliisper.  Petrovna  looked  up  at 
him,  peering  with  contracted  ej^es. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  he  asked.  Then  rising  :  "  Oh,  it's  the 
little  deserter." 

"  I  ain't  a  deserter,"  hotly  answered  Evan  ;  "  I  was  made 
to  come  here,  and  I  could  not  helj)  it.  You  know  that  as 
well  as  I  do." 

"  Ah,  well,  well,"  said  Petrovna,  and  Evan  could  tell  by 
the  tone  of  his  voice  that  he  was  smiling,  "  a  prisoner  is 
not  a  deserter.  But,  remember,"  he  added  seriouslj^  "you 
have  no  right  where  you  are.  Your  place  is  among  your 
own  people.  You  have  told  me  what  your  father  said  to 
you  in  prison.  You  are  never  to  forget  that  as  long  as  you 
shall  live." 

"  I  sha'n't  forget  that,"  said  young  Evan.  "  I  sha'n't 
forget  it — never.     You  bet  on  that." 

llis  voice  was  choking,  for  the  merest  allusion  to  his 
father's  fate  always  had  power  to  move  him,  and  his 
father's  words  were  oftener  in  his  memory  than  an}'  thing 
else  he  had  ever  heard  or  known. 

"That  is  well,"  said  Petrovna.  "They're  treating  you 
kindly  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  first-rate.  I  wish  I  wasn't  sometimes.  I  want 
to  be  sorry  that  I'm  here." 

"  Flesh-pots  of  Egypt,"  said  the  Russian  to  himself,  and 
then  aloud  : 

"  My  little  bo}^,  remember  always, — I  may  not  be  able  to 
speak  to  you  again, — but  remember  always  what  you  owe 


115 


to  the  people  who  call  themselves  gentlemen.  Your  old 
matey  is  changed  since  he  kept  pigs  at  Koollala,  eh?  You 
don't  know  yet  how  much  he  is  changed,  but  I  know.  He 
was  once  a  friend  of  the  poor,  because  he  was  one  of  them. 
Now  that  he  is  rich  again,  and  an  aristocrat,  he  is  their 
enemy." 

"My  good  Petrovna,"  said  the  tranquil  voice  of  the 
duke,  very  close  at  hand  in  the  darkness,  "you're  a  liar. 
I  haven't  changed  at  all.  It  is  only  your  own  pig-headed 
obstinacy  that  has  come  between  us." 

The  duke  himself,  clad  in  white  linen,  rose  from  the 
lounge  chair  on  which  he  had  been  sitting  and  leaned  over 
the  rail. 

"Why  do  you  want,"  he  asked,  "to  make  bad  blood 
between  the  child  and  me  ?  " 

"  Because,"  Petrovna  answered,  "  the  cliild  was  in  the 
right  way  before  we  started  on  this  journey,  and  because 
you  are  leading  him  astray  from  it.  There  is  no  end  to  the 
corruption  of  riches.  You  were  a  man  a  poor  six  weeks 
ago.     Now  you  are  no  more  than  an  aristocrat." 

"  You  irreconcilable  old  idiot,"  cried  the  nobleman,  with 
a  laugh,  half  of  vexation  and  half  of  humor,  "  what  do 
you  propose  that  I  should  do  ?  Sliall  I  go  back  and  feed 
pigs  again  at  Koollala  ?  Shall  I  disown  ray  name,  and  throw 
my  money  into  the  sea  ?  Am  I  behaving  like  a  scoundrel 
because  I  take  this  unhappy  little  waif  and  trust  to  train 
him  into  a  well-educated  and  useful  citizen?" 

He  had  fallen  into  his  own  tongue  again,  and  Evan 
could  no  longer  understand  the  conversation. 

"The  child's  birthriglit,"  Petrovna  answered,  "is  his 
intellectual  freedom.  He  lias  cause  enough  behind  him  to 
be  on  the  right  side.  It  is  a  fine  spectacle,"  he  added 
scornfully,  "  to  see  a  revolutionary  turned  aristocrat,  and 
devoting  himself  to  the  creation  of  a  bourgeois.'''' 

"  There  is  no  talking  with  you,  my  good  Petrovna,"  the 


116 


other  answered  good-humorcdly  ;  and  tl)en,  returning  to 
Englisli,  he  addressed  Evan,  laying  a  liand  upon  his 
shoulder  : 

"  You  have  always  liked  me,  ray  little  friend,  have  3'ou 
not  ?  Tell  me,  now.  In  the  old  days  at  Koollala  j^ou 
used  to  like  me  very  well  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy,  in  a  somewhat  sullen  and  reluctant 
tone. 

"  And  why  did  you  like  me  ?  Was  it  not  because  I  was 
kind  to  you  always  ?     AYas  I  not  kind  to  you  always?" 

Evan  answered  "  Yes  "again,  and  this  time  the  less  con- 
strainedly. 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  duke,  "I  promise  you  if  you  are 
a  good  boy  I  will  always  be  kind  to  j^ou.  You  shall  be 
well  taught,  and  well  fed,  and  well  clothed,  and  when  you 
grow  up  to  be  a  man,  and  can  think  for  yourself,  you  shall 
think  exactly  what  you  please,  and  I  shall  still  always 
be  your  friend.  Now,  Petrovna,  by  what  right  do  j^ou 
attempt  to  stand  between  the  boy  and  his  welfare?  What 
kind  of  career  can  you  offer  him  if  you  persuade  him  to 
refuse  my  offer  ?  " 

Petrovna  was  silent. 

"Come  wath  me,  Evan,"  said  the  duke. 

The  boy  half  reluctantly  surrendered  his  hand,  and 
allowed  himself  to  be  led  away  along  the  deck.  It  was 
many  years  before  he  next  saw  Petrovna. 


END    OF   BOOK    FIRST 


:©ooFi  ScconD 
THE  REAPING   OF  THE  HARVEST 


CHAPTER  I 

Fourteen  years  have  gone  by.  The  date  is  1893,  and 
the  scene  a  dingy  student's  apartment  in  Paris. 

A  young  man,  tall  and  graceful  in  figure — a  young  man 
mustached  and  bearded,  with  deep,  abstracted-looking 
black  eyes,  and  a  pale  olive  complexion,  walked  up  and 
down  tlie  uncarpeted  room  with  a  newspaper  proof-sheet 
in  his  hand,  and  a  penholder  held  crosswise  between  his 
lips.  The  young  man  and  the  apartment  were  alike  poorly 
furnished,  and  showed  alike  indications  of  having  witnessed 
better  days.  The  floor  of  the  room  had  once  been  waxed 
and  polished,  but  was  now  scored  over  everywhere  with 
boot-marks,  and  here  and  there  showed  the  bare  and  ragged 
fibre  of  the  wood.  There  were  clean  spaces,  oval  and 
oblong,  on  the  soiled  wall,  which  declared  that  pictures 
and  mirrors  at  no  very  distant  date  had  hung  there.  The 
young  man  was  attired  in  garments  of  fashionable  cut 
which  were  wofully  gone  to  seed.  The  edges  of  his  cuifs 
and  collar,  well  washed  and  starched,  had  begun  to  fray 
into  threads,  and  the  scissors  unskilfully  applied  had  cut 
them  out  of  shape.  The  trousers  were  trodden  at  the  heel. 
The  shoulders  of  the  coat  shone  with  the  gloss  which 
comes  of  overwear.  A  button  hung  by  one  loose  thread 
at  the  back  of  the  waist,  and  another  was  missing 
altogether.  The  pale  olive  complexion  was  paler  than  it 
had  a  right  to  be,  and  the  young  man's  cheeks  were  slightly 

117 


118 


sunken,  as  if  with  privation.  As  he  marclied  up  and  down 
the  chamber,  muttei'ing  to  himself  indistinctly  past  the 
penholder,  which  gagged  his  utterance,  he  paused  now  and 
then  to  glance  at  the  proof-sheet,  and,  having  read  a  line 
or  two,  invariably  waved  it  with  an  air  of  triumph,  and 
resumed  his  march  with  an  aspect  of  renewed  determina- 
tion. 

There  were  many  proof-sheets  on  the  unclothed,  meagre 
table  which  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  apartment  ;  and  the 
corners  of  the  room  were  untidily  littered  with  heaps  of 
newspapers.  Steps  sounded  on  the  stair  outside,  but  the 
occupant  of  the  chamber  took  no  notice  of  them.  They 
paused  at  the  door  of  his  room.  There  was  a  loud  knock- 
ing at  the  door,  and  the  young  man  with  an  impatient 
"Halloa,  there  !  "  threw  it  open,  and  confronted  his  visitors 
witli  an  instant  change  of  manner. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Quahar — Aliss  Quahar,  I  am  honored 
beyond  measure." 

Mr.  Quahar  was  Scotch — Scotch  in  the  fringe  of  gray 
hair  and  whiskers,  once  of  a  fiery  red,  and  now  of  a  foxy 
white  with  many  years  ;  Scotch  in  the  deep  wrinkles, 
which  looked  as  if  they  were  cut  in  a  mask  of  lignum 
vitae ;  Scotch  in  the  shaggy  eyebrows,  in  the  bulb  of 
humor  at  either  end  of  the  upper  lip,  in  the  mouth,  at  once 
unctuous  and  secretive,  and  most  Scotch  of  all  in  the  light 
gray  twinkling  eyes,  which  looked  on  all  things  with  an 
air  of  penetrating  sagacity  and  droll  appreciation  at  one 
and  the  same  time. 

He  entered  the  room  on  its  rightful  occupant's  invita- 
tion, and  held  the  door  open  for  Miss  Quahar  to  enter. 
She  was  Scotch  also,  with  that  almost  excessive  fair  pallor 
wiiich  is  sometimes  to  be  found  among  northern  beauties, 
and  hair  like  floss  silk  of  an  auburn  or  cliestnut  tinge. 
Her  features  were  finely  formed,  and  quite  feminine,  but 
they  impressed  the  observer  with  an  altogether  masculine 


119 


sense  of  courage,  purpose,  and  the  capacity  for  clear  think- 
ing. Her  gray  eyes  were  as  candid  as  the  day,  and  as 
innocently  courageous  as  a  child's.  Tlie  owner  of  the 
room  closed  the  door,  drew  into  position  the  two  chairs 
the  apartment  contained,  and  begged  tlie  arrivals  to  be 
seated.  The  old  man,  with  his  hat  in  one  hand  and  his 
walking-stick  in  the  other,  looked  about  him,  with  his  lips 
twitching  and  his  eyes  twinkling  in  response  to  some 
inward  humorous  prompting. 

"  And  this,"  he  said  at  last,  "  is  the  market  you've 
brought  your  pigs  to  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  the  young  man  answered  with  a  laugh;  "this 
is  the  market." 

"  Now,  Evan  Rhys,"  said  Mr.  Quahar,  with  a  sudden 
tone  of  solemnit}^,  "  I've  called  to  see  you  on  a  matter  of 
the  very  greatest  importance.  I'm  just  fresh  from  reading 
that  infernal  article  of  yours  in  to-day's  issue  of  that  rag 
yonder." 

He  pointed  the  walking-stick  at  the  litter  of  papers  in 
one  corner.  The  litter  consisted  entirely  of  copies  of  one 
publication.  The  title  of  the  newspaper,  visible  here  and 
there  in  ill-printed  large  black  letters  of  a  blockish  shape, 
was  La  Renaissance  de  V Homme. 

"  Suppose,  instead  o'  christening  the  d d  thing  the 

new  birth  o'  man " 

"  Father  !  "  said  the  young  lady. 

"Your  pardon's  begged,"  he  answered.  "Supposing, 
instead  o'  christening  yon  murderous  thing  the  new  birtli 
o'  man,  you'd  called  it  Universal  Death,  ye'd  ha'  been 
nearer  the  title  for  the  day's  issue.  What  d'ye  mean  by 
it,  and  how  long  d'ye  suppose  that  the  Due  de  Marais 
Castel  is  going  to  stand  that  kind  o'  nonsense  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  sir,"  Evan  Rhys  answered  ; 
"  and  I  don't  know  that  I  very  greatly  care." 

"But,   man,"   the   Scotchman    answered,  "you   have  a 


120 


right  to  care.  It  is  your  business  to  care.  Lad  never  had 
a  finer  friend  in  this  world  than  you  found  in  him.  You've 
an  obligation  to  respect  his  opinions." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Quahar,"  said  Rhys  ;  "  I  have 
a  right  to  respect  my  own  conscience." 

"  Conscience  !  "  cried  Quahar.  "  He  talks  o'  conscience 
with  that  devilish,  bloodthirst}'^,  damnable  manifesto  lying 
on  the  table  there  under  his  nose,  and  signed  with  his  own 
name." 

The  girl  laid  a  restraining  hand  upon  his  arm. 
"  Father^! " 

"  Your  pardon's  begged,  Effie,  my  darling.  But  I  just 
lose  ra}^  temper  at  this  advocacy  of  the  wholesale  murder 
of  the  innocents.  Here's  a  young  man  that  sets  up  in  busi- 
ness as  a  public  assassin,  and  talks  about  his  conscience.  I 
suppose  that  in  the  heart  of  you,  Evan,  j^ou're  perfectly 
well  aware  that  you're  an  awfu'  fool." 

"  I'm  told  so  often  enough,"  said  Evan,  with  a  sour  and 
mournful  smile.  "  I  suppose  it's  only  my  native  obstinacy 
which  enables  me  to  doubt  it." 

"  I  read  the  article  only  this  afternoon,"  said  the  girl,  in 
a  soft  and  musical  voice. 

The  old  man's  cacophanous  tones  broke  upon  her  speech 
like  the  quack  of  a  duck  on  the  song  of  the  blackbird. 

"Listen  to  Miss  Effie,  my  man.  There's  a  heap  o' 
worldly  wisdom  and  common-sense  hidden  away  in  that 
little  head  o'  hers,  I  tell  you." 

"I  shall  listen  with  pleasure,  as  I  always  do,"  said 
Evan,  "  to  any  thing  Miss  Quahar  may  have  to  say 
to  me." 

His  eyes,  and,  indeed,  his  whole  countenance,  had  grown 
with  the  passage  of  tlie  years  to  an  extraordinary^  melan- 
choly, which  had  at  times  something  altogether  wild  in  it  ; 
but  he  turned  upon  the  girl  with  a  smile  which  was  all  the 
more  bright  and  fascinating  because  of  the  Quixote  lean- 


121 


ness  of  his  countenance.  It  was  evident  enough  that  he 
smiled  but  rarely, 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Quahar,  raising  a  small  gloved 
hand  in  warning  against  further  interruption  on  her 
father's  part.  "I  read  the  article  only  this  afternoon,  and 
I  confess  that  I  was  very  shocked  and  sorry  to  see  your 
name  attached  to  it.  It  is  not  true,  Mr.  Rliys,  that  you 
advocate  wholesale  murder,  but  it  is  quite  true  that  an 
ignorant  man  reading  what  you  have  written  might  very 
well  believe  you  to  mean  that." 

"  The  condition  of  society "  broke  out  Evan,  with  an 

oratorical  gesture. 

"  Is  very  varied,"  said  the  girl  gently. 

lie  stopped  himself  in  the  very  beginning  of  a  torrent 
of  excited  speech,  and  listened. 

*'  In  many  cases,"  she  went  on,  "  it  is  very  terrible.  My 
father  has  told  me  of  his  own  early  struggles,  and  I  know 
something  of  the  condition  of  the  poor  in  Paris.  But  will 
it  help  the  poor  to  excite  them  to  anger  and  hatred  ? 
Might  it  not  be  as  useful  to  teach  them  thrift  and  honesty 
and  sobriety  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Evan,  beaming  on  her.  "  You  are  one  of 
those.  Miss  Quahar,  who  can  afford  to  make  war  Avith 
a  fan  and  a  vinaigrette.     A  man  needs  sterner  weapons." 

"  Let  him  alone  !  "  cried  the  old  Scot.  "  Look  here, 
Evan.  I  have  received  from  his  Excellency  this  morning 
the  usual  monthly  allowance  of  one  thousand  francs  for 
you,  and  I  am  going  to  take  it  upon  myself  not  to  hand  it 
over  without  an  undertaking  on  your  part.  The  duke's  in 
ignorance  of  the  fact  that  you've  been  spending  your 
allowance — his  money — for  this  last  half  year  on  that 
incendiary  rag  yonder.  Now,  I  am  in  a  position  of 
responsibility  and  trust  toward  the  duke,  and  if  his  CA'es 
are  not  open  to  the  fact,  mine  are.  I'm  not  going  to 
allow  his    money  to   be   expended    in    tl)at  way    without 


122 


his  knowledge,  as  you  very  well  know.  You'll  have  no 
penny  of  his  money  to  lay  out  on  any  such  mischievous 
business.  The  allowance  is  made  to  you  to  enable  30U  to 
prosecute  your  studies,  and  to  live  like  a  gentleman. 
You're  not  prosecuting  your  studies.  You're  wasting 
your  time  and  your  talents  in  the  propagation  of  the 
most  mischievous  and  damnable  ideas  I  ever  heard  of,  and 
you're  living  like  a  dog  in  a  kennel.  Now,  if  you'll  just 
forgive  me  for  putting  the  matter  in  a  plain  man's  plain 
way,  I'll  tell  you  that  that's  no  less  than  malversation  of 
funds.     I'll  be  no  party  to  it." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Qualiar,"  said  Evan.  "You  shall  do 
exactly  what  your  sense  of  dutj^  prompts  you  to  do,  and 
on  my  side  I  shall  ask  for  no  greater  freedom." 

Again  a  rap  sounded  at  the  door.  Evan  cried  : 
"Entrez!"  and  a  magnificent  Swiss  entered,  bearing  a 
letter. 

"  I  am  bidden  to  say,  M.  Rhys,"  said  the  messenger, 
handing  him  a  letter,  "  that  his  Excellency  requests  an 
immediate  answer." 

Evan,  with  a  hasty  word  of  apology  to  his  visitors, 
broke  the  seal  of  the  letter  and  read  with  an  unmoved  coun- 
tenance. It  was  headed  with  the  ducal  insignia  of  the 
writer's  house,  and  was  dated  in  pale  embossed  plain 
letters  from  the  Hotel  de  Marais  Castel,  Quai  d'Orsay. 

"  My  dear  Evan,"  it  ran  :  "  Tell  the  messenger  at  what 
hour  it  Avill  be  convenient  for  you  to  call  upon  me  here. 
Make  the  hour  as  early  as  possible.  I  have  to  see  you  on 
business  of  the  utmost  importance  to  3'^ourself." 

Evan  handed  the  letter  to  Quahar,  who  glanced  over 
it  and  lianded  it  back  again. 

"  He's  been  told  o'  that  screed  o'  rubbish,"  he  said 
quietly,  "and  for  the  first  time  identified  you  with  tlie 
responsible  editor  of  the  New  Birth  of  Many 

lie  spoke  with  a  voice  of  weary  nausea,  as  if  the  very 


123 


utterance  of  the  title  tired  and  sickened  him.  "You'd 
best  get  away  at  once,  lad." 

"  Yes,"  said  Evan,  "  I  suppose  I  bad  better.  You'll 
excuse  me,  Miss  Quabar." 

Sbe  rose  and  beld  out  ber  band  to  bim.  He  took  it  in 
bis  own,  and  beld  it  a  second  or  two  longer  tban  was 
necessary.  His  dark  eyes  burned  over  ber,  and  bis  sallow 
face  flusbed,  but  tbe  girl's  look  of  quiet  candor  and  inno- 
cent courage  underwent  no  cbange. 

"Let  bis  Excellency  know,"  said  Evan,  releasing  ber 
band  and  turning  upon  the  messenger,  "  tbat  I  will  follow 
you  at  once.  You  will  forgive  me,"  be  added,  resuming 
bis  Englisb  as  be  turned  to  bis  visitors,  and  the  Swiss 
departed,  closing  tbe  door  behind  him.  "  I  must  make 
some  cbange  in  my  appearance  before  I  go  to  tbe  Quai 
d'Orsay." 

"I  wish  you'd  make  some  in  your  opinions,"  said 
Quabar,  balf  pettishly — "  whose  adornment  let  it  not  be 
the  plaiting  of  the  hair,  or  the  wearing  of  jewels,  or  tbe 
putting  on  of  apparel,  but  let  it  be  tbe  hidden  man  of  tbe 
heart.  Tbat  would  please  tbe  duke  and  me,  and," — with 
a  sideway  glance  at  bis  daughter, — "  mair  folk  beside." 

Evan,  being  left  to  himself  a  moment  later,  retired  to  an 
inner  room,  and  there  washed  his  bands  and  changed  his 
coat.  He  came  out,  looking  a  trifle  less  seedy  than  before, 
and,  emerging  hastily  upon  the  street,  marched  swiftly  in 
the  direction  of  the  Quai  d'Orsay. 

A  liberal  education,  an  excellent  though  neglected 
tailor,  and  years  of  contact  with  all  sorts  of  well-bred  and 
intellectual  people,  had  made  tbe  little  ragamuffin  of 
Koollala  a  gentleman  in  outward  aspect.  The  snub-nosed 
boy,  with  a  face  freckled  by  Australian  sun  and  wind 
until  it  looked  like  a  toad's  back,  was  barely  recognizable 
in  the  tall,  soldierly,  bearded  figure  of  the  man  who  wore 
that  too  emaciated  mask  of  almost  transparent  olive.     Tbe 


124 


doggedness  and  sadness  of  the  boy  were  recognizable  still 
in  the  doggedness  and  sadness  of  the  man  ;  but  even  there 
tlie  very  type  of  suffering  and  of  sullenness  was  changed. 
It  had  been  dull,  inert,  blunted,  and  was  now  informed 
with  fire  and  cultured  intellect.  It  might  perhaps  have 
been  better  and  happier  for  the  man,  and  no  less  better  and 
happier  for  society,  if  the  rage  and  grief  of  childhood  had 
been  left  to  smoulder  at  the  plough-tail  until  it  died  in  quiet 
ashes.  But  this  is  a  great  problem,  and  not  fitly  to  be 
discussed  in  these  pages.  The  genius  of  humanity  has 
worked  in  many  strange  ways,  and  ma}^  yet  work  in  ways 
still  stranger.  The  contemporary  chronicler  sees  too  close 
to  see  well. 

Evan  reached  the  hotel  of  his  patron,  and  was  admitted 
without  delaj'.  He  ^jassed  through  the  noble  hall,  and  up 
the  magnificent  staircase.  Every  thing  at  the  mere 
entrance  of  the  great  house  spoke  of  wealth  and  taste. 
The  staircase  was  all  marble,  but  the  foot  fell  soundless 
on  a  thick  pile  carpet  of  deep  crimson.  The  supports  of 
the  broad  balustrade  of  black  oak  were  of  polished  steel, 
and  the  brass  rods  which  held  the  carpet  in  its  place  were 
of  extraordinary  solidit}^  and  so  lustrous  that  they  shone 
like  gold.  Marble  busts  on  porpliyry  columns  and  priceless 
antique  bronzes  ornamented  the  landings  and  the  corridor  ; 
and  the  painted  windows  of  the  house  made  a  dim  religious 
light,  as  if  the  i)lace  had  been  a  house  of  Avorship.  It  was 
to  Evan's  mind  a  house  of  worship  for  the  mammon  of 
unrighteousness — one  of  the  many  shrines  which  are  built 
in  all  great  cities  to  that  shameful  and  shameless  deity. 
The  tall  servant  who  preceded  him  softly  and  reverently 
opened  the  door,  and  Evan  entered  an  anteroom. 
Another  servant  passed  him  to  a  further  chamber,  and  a 
third  announced  his  name  to  the  occupant  of  yet  another 
room.  The  Due  de  Marais  Castel  was  half  sitting,  half 
lying  on  a  lounge  covered  with  Utrecht  velvet.     A  book- 


125 


rest  with  a  student's  lamp  attaclied  to  it,  as  yet,  of  course, 
unlighted,  swung  easily  at  his  elbow.  He  closed  the  book 
which  lay  upon  the  rest,  but  kept  a  right-hand  fore-finger 
between  the  pages,  as  if  to  mark  the  place,  his  left  hand 
stretched  out  languidly  toward  Evan,  not  in  salutation, 
but  as  if  to  mark  the  spot  at  which  he  should  arrest  his 
footsteps.  The  young  man  paused,  and  bowed  with  the 
slightest  possible  inclination  of  the  head.  It  might  have 
been  a  gesture  of  derision,  it  Avas  so  slight,  and  had  in  it 
so  little  of  gratitude  or  of  courtesy.  The  Due  de  Marais 
Castel  had  amply  fulfilled  his  promise  to  Petrovna  on  that 
far-off  day,  in  that  far-off  Koollala,  on  which  he  had  first 
learned  of  his  great  inheritance.  He  had  turned  flaneur, 
and  had  done  his  business  well.  His  benefactions  to  the 
poor  were  beyond  counting.  His  pensioners,  if  from  the 
time  of  his  rearrival  in  Paris  until  now  they  could  have 
been  gathered  together,  would  have  formed  quite  a 
respectable  army.  As  Petrovna  had  prophesied,  he  had 
long  since  ceased  to  be  in  the  least  degree  revolutionary 
in  his  ideas  ;  but  his  own  intimate  knowledge  of  human 
suffering  had  softened  a  heart  always  generous,  and  had 
made  him  an  easy  prey  for  every  kind  of  adventurer 
known  beneath  the  sun.  His  mustache  and  his  close- 
cropped  hair  had  grown  snowy  white,  but  his  eyebrows 
had  kept  their  color,  and  gave  a  marked  distinction  to  his 
face.  If  a  stranger  had  been  told,  knowing  nothing  of  his 
history,  that  this  incarnation  of  middle-aged  dandyism  had 
once  kept  pigs  by  way  of  making  a  living  in  a  starved 
antipodean  colony,  he  would  have  laughed  at  the  mere 
baldness  of  the  lies.  But,  then,  the  pig-keeping  had  onl}' 
been  an  episode. 

"  You  will  find,"  said  M.  le  Due,  "  a  copy, — may  I  be 
allowed  to  say  a  very  dirty  and  ill-printed  copy  ? — of  a 
journal  called  La  Renaissance  de  VHomme  on  the 
gecretary,  there.     Will  you  oblige  me  by  looking  at  it  ?  " 


136 


Evan  crossed  the  room  in  the  direction  indicated,  found 
the  journal,  and  returned  to  his  old  place, 

"There  is/'  said  M.  le  Due,  "  an  article  on  the  first  page 
which  bears  your  signature.  Will  you  confer  upon  me 
the  privilege  of  hearing  it  read  aloud  ?  " 

Evan  bowed,  folded  the  paper,  found  the  article  referred 
to,  and  began  to  read. 

"  I  admit,"  said  M.  le  Due,  at  the  end  of  the  first 
paragraph,  "  that  your  French  is  excellent,  and  so  far  you 
confer  credit  upon  my  training.     Go  on,  if  you  please." 

"  '  Here  and  there,' "  read  Evan,  " '  is  to  be  found  an  aris- 
tocrat of  a  more  generous  turn  of  mind.  Here  and  there 
we  meet  with  a  man  of  great  wealth  who  can  afford  to 
himself,  amid  all  the  other  luxuries  which  make  life 
pleasant  to  him,  the  luxury  of  doing  a  little  good,  reliev- 
ing a  little  distress — a  friend  of  the  people  who  pays  toll 
for  millions  by  a  tithe  of  mint  and  anise  and  cummin, 
without  a  thought  of  remorse.  Such  a  man  consumes 
in  countless  extravagances  the  bread  of  hundreds  or  of 
thousands,  while  he  gains  an  ecstasy  of  self-complacence 
by  offering  here  and  there  the  heel  of  a  loaf  to  some  one 
of  his  innumerable  victims.' " 

The  Due  de  Marais  Castel  threw  both  hands  abroad, 
losing  the  place  he  had  hitherto  marked  in  the  volume  he 
had  been  reading,  and  looked  at  Evan  with  a  humorous 
reproach. 

"  Et  tu,  Brute  !  "  he  said,  laughing. 

The  reader  went  on.  He  read  with  an  obvious  reluc- 
tance of  constraint  and  awkwardness,  which  stole  most  of 
the  fii'e  from  his  periods.  He  had  meant  every  word  he 
had  written,  and  now,  being  forced  to  repeat  aloud,  in  the 
presence  of  his  lifelong  benefactor,  the  charges  he  had 
founded  upon  his  patron's  action,  he  felt  rebuked  and 
foolish  and  ungrateful. 

"  *  So  long,' "  he  continued,  "  '  as  this  easy  dole  is  accepted 


127 


•with  gratitude,  so  long,  indeed,  as  it  is  not  I'ejected  with 
contempt  and  scorn,  so  long  as  the  luxurious  giver  is 
regarded  as  a  benefactor  of  his  species,  just  so  long  will 
charity  be  the  cloak  which  covers  the  curse  of  the  whole 
world.  It  is  sometimes  to  be  lamented  that  all  the  wealthy 
and  titled  are  not  as  hard  of  heart,  as  degraded  in  the 
enjoyment  of  their  own  selfish  lusts,  as  the  vast  majority. 
The  hands  of  the  few  sprinkle  perfume  upon  a  putrescent 
mass,  the  public  nose  sniffs  the  perfume  gratefully,  and 
the  general  common-sense  is  not  keen  enough  to  guess  what 
lies  below  it.  These  benefactors  of  the  poor  are  the  poor's 
worst  enemies,  for  were  it  not  for  them  their  race  would 
long  since  have  been  recognized  for  what  it  is :  the 
incubus  of  the  world — the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  choking 
the  staggering  Sinbad  who  carries  him — the  inert  moun- 
tain which  lies  on  the  laboring  breast  of  Enceladus.' " 

"  I  say  nothing,"  interrupted  M.  le  Due,  "  of  the  majes- 
tic mixture  of  your  similes — whether  Sinbad  the  Sailor 
sprinkled  Etna  with  rose-water,  or  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea 
rides  a  cock-horse  on  a  dunghill,  or  whether  both  do  either, 
or  either  neither  ;  the  nonsense  is  equally  amusing.  But 
do  you  seriously  propose,  my  young  friend,  that  I,  for 
example,  should  put  an  end  to  your  allowance  in  order 
that  after  fourteen  years  of  the  help  and  friendship  received 
from  me  you  shall  have  a  proper  right  to  hate  me  ?" 

"I  beg  your  j^ardon,  sir,"  said  Evan.  "  You  place  me  in 
a  position  of  extreme  awkwardness." 

"  I  am  flattered,"  said  his  patron,  "  to  find  that  you  do  so 
much  justice  to  my  dexterity  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  my  poor, 
foolish  Evan,  don't  you  think  it  is  yourself  by  whom  you 
are  placed  in  a  position  of  extreme  awkwardness  ?  Go 
away,  my  lad,  resign  this  silly  nonsense,  and  devote  your- 
self to  a  life  of  usefulness.  All,  you  may  retort  on  me, 
I  am  not  useful,  and,  since  I  yearly  assume  a  form  more 
and  more  globular,  cease  even  to  be  ornamental.     But,  my 


128 


dear  fellow,  it  takes  all  sorts  to  make  a  world.  Yoii  know 
very  well  that  you  don't  really  mean  all  that  nonsense. 
You  have  not  so  exaggerated  an  ojjinion  of  j'^our  own 
intellect  as  to  suppose  that  you  are  so  much  wiser,  so  much 
clearer-headed,  and  so  much  more  experienced  than  other 
men  who  have  tried  to  heal  the  sores  of  the  world,  that 
you  can  afford  to  tr}^  such  rash  remedies  as  you  have 
advised  in  that  stupid  article.  You  have  not  to  fight  with 
society.  Yon  have  to  fight  with  human  nature.  The 
world  is  a  very  big  place,  my  little  Evan,  and  you  live  in  a 
very  little  corner  of  it." 

"  I  have  been  told  all  this,  sir,"  Evan  interrupted. 

"  And  more,  no  doubt,"  said  the  duke,  "  and  more  wisely 
and  more  eloquently.  But,  ray  dear  child,  I  am  old 
enough  to  be  your  father,  and  I  have  not  treated  you 
unkindly;  and,  honestly,  I  deserve  a  better  return  than 
this.  You  should  reall}^  not  spend  a  man's  money,  even  if 
he  were  your  enemy,  in  paying  a  barber  to  set  the  razor 
which  is  intended  to  cut  his  throat.  I  confess,"  he  added 
airily,  as  if  the  matter  were  one  of  no  consequence,  "that 
I  find  something  in  it  which  is  rather  at  war  with  my 
sense  of  loyalty.  Bread  and  salt,  and  the  tent  of  the 
Bedouin,  jou  know,  ray  dear  Evan.  You  want  to  be 
accounted  a  dweller  in  the  desert.  Is  it  not  worth  while 
to  remember  the  ancient  maxims  of  the  desert  tribes  ?  " 

"  I  have  alwaj's  known,  sir,"  said  Evan,  "  that  my 
opinions  would  be  distasteful  to  you.  I  have  been  cow- 
ardly enough  until  now  to  hide  them  from  j^ou  partly. 
AVhen  I  wrote  this  article," — he  tapped  the  paper  as  he 
spoke, — "  I  resolved  to  sign  it,  and  to  put  an  end  to  my 
own  cowardice." 

"  And  to  my  good-M'ill  ?  "  the  duke  queried. 

"  I  expected  that,  sir." 

"Now,  really,"  the  duke  asked  him,  in  a  more  serious 
tone  than  he  had  taken  hitherto,  "  won't  jou   consent  to 


129 


be  quiet  for  a  little  while  ?  Go  and  travel — go  out  and  see 
the  world — see  what  democracy  has  done  in  the  United 
States.  See  what  democracy  is  doing  in  the  English  colo- 
nies. Travel  France,  and  see  what  democracj^  is  doing 
here." 

"  Democracy,"  the  young  man  answered,  "  has  been  put 
upon  its  trial,  and  has  failed.  We  shall  have  a  democracy 
one  day  tliat  will  be  Avorth  having  ;  but  Ave  shall  never 
reach  it  by  the  old-fashioned  road." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  of  that  ?  "  the  duke  asked.  "  You 
are  certain  of  your  mission  ?  You  are  so  wise  and  so  clear- 
beaded  tliat  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  ultimate  suc- 
cess of  the  means  you  propose  to  employ  ?     You  are  quite 

— quite What  is   your  English   word  ?     I  speak  so 

little  English  lately.     You  are  quite  cocksure?" 

"  No  reform,  sir,"  answered  Evan,  "  Avas  ever  offered  to 
the  world  Avhich  was  not  encountered  by  conservatism  Avith 
such  arguments." 

"Oh,  I  grant  you,"  said  the  duke.  "  But  will  you  take 
my  scheme?  Will  you  travel  and  observe,  and  will  you 
for  say  two  years  unload  your  pen  ?  Come — for  your 
own  sake,  silly  boy  ?" 

"  I  cannot  pledge  myself,  sir,"  Evan  ansAvered,  "  to  dis- 
guise my  opinions." 

"Your  opinions!  Your  opinions!"  cried  the  duke. 
"  Little  egotist  !  There  are  twelve  hundred  millions  of 
people  in  the  Avorld,  and  they  all  have  opinions,  and  they 
are  mostly  not  worth  having.  What  are  the  chances  of 
yours  being  inspired  ?  " 

"  They  are  mine,  sir,"  the  young  man  answered,  Avith 
a  complete  lapse  into  his  own  sullenness.  "  A  man  is 
responsible  to  himself  for  his  own  thoughts  and  actions 
only." 

"  Ohe,"  said   the  duke,  "you  allow  me   a  personal  lati- 
tude ?  " 
9 


130 


The  young  man  bowed,  and  if  his  first  deference  to  his 
patron  had  been  a  little  mutilated,  the  second  was  so  far 
overdone  that  his  protector  found  an  open  insult  in  it. 

"  I  accept  my  personal  responsibility,  mj'-  dear  Evan," 
he  said,  with  great  tranquillity,  "and  until  you  choose  to 
moderate  your  present  madness  you  may,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  go  to  the  devil."  He  struck  a  gong  which 
stood  upon  a  little  table  within  easy  reach  of  his  hand,  and 
the  interview  was  over. 


CHAPTER   II 

There  is  nothing  so  inexorable,  so  cruel,  so  impossible 
to  fight  against,  as  nature.  To  be  born  a  fool  is  a  great 
misfortune  which  affords  no  chance  of  amelioration.  Next 
to  nature  in  point  of  cruelty  comes  habit.  A  man  may 
teach  himself,  or  may  be  taught,  to  be  a  crank  and  a 
fanatic,  and  find  that  there  is  no  reteaching  him,  no  going 
back  upon  the  road  travelled.  There  were  certain  things  in 
Evan  Rhys's  mind  which  did  not  reconcile  themselves.  He 
knew  that  he  owed  a  great  deal  to  his  patient  and  easy- 
going patron  ;  and  he  knew  that  he  had  been  spending 
that  patron's  money  for  a  purpose  which  he  could  not 
possibly  be  supposed  to  sanction  for  a  moment.  He  was 
behaving  with  undeniable  ingratitude,  and  yet  in  his  heart 
he  knew  himself  to  be  grateful.  Conscience,  he  told  him- 
self, was  stronger  than  mere  emotion.  He  believed  with 
the  whole  force  of  his  nature  ,that  he  was  right;  he  knew 
that  he  would  be  sunk  deep  in  his  own  contempt  if  he  did 
not  give  voice  to  the  thoughts  which  filled  him,  and  all  the 
same  he  was  very  unsatisfied  with  his  own  conduct. 

It  was  already  late  on  a  February  afternoon,  and  a  cheer- 
less drizzle  was  falling.  He  walked,  neither  knowing  nor 
caring  in  what  direction  his  footsteps  led  him,  along  the 
river-side,  where  the  open-air  venders  of  books  had 
covered  their  stock  with  tarpaulin,  and  stood,  blue-nosed 
and  patient,  in  no  expectation  of  custom.  The  towers  of 
Notre  Dame  stood  like  a  pale  water-color  wash  against  the 
leaden  blank  of  the  sk}',  and  were  now  and  again  half 
obliterated  by  the  driving  mist  and  rain.  The  chamber  in 
which  he  had  held  his  final  interview  with  the  Due   de 

131 


133 


Marais  Castel  was  still  in  liis  mind.  Its  warmth  and 
brightness,  and  the  solid  and  chastened  sj^lendors  of  the 
house,  accented  the  chill  and  gloom  of  the  sordid  quays, 
the  turbid  river,  and  the  tearful,  stormy  close  of  day. 
More  by  habit  than  resolve  Evan  struck  off  to  the  right, 
near  the  statue  of  Voltaire,  and,  walking  raj^idl}",  turned 
from  left  to  right,  and  left  to  right  again,  until  he  reached 
a  smoke-blackened  and  ancient  street,  where  he  could  hear 
distincth'  the  clank  of  printing  machinery,  recognizable  all 
the  world  over  to  the  journalistic  ear.  He  had  onlj'  just 
distinguished  it  Avith  an  awakened  mind  when  it  stopped 
suddenly,  and  a  curious  sense  of  forecast  fell  upon  him, 
Every-body  knows  the  peculiar  condition  of  mind  in  wliich 
a  trifle  of  this  sort  takes  importance.  La  JRenaissance  cle 
VMomnie  was  in  the  act  of  being  printed,  and  something 
or  other  had  occurred  to  check  the  issue  of  the  weekly 
number.  It  might  be,  as  he  knew  ver}^  well,  only  a 
momentary  interruption  ;  but  he  guessed,  with  an  intuition 
so  strong  that  it  would  not  be  disregarded,  tliat  the  stop- 
page meant  more  than  that.  He  quickened  his  pace  to 
a  run,  dashed  through  a  narrow  ojDcn  entrance,  and  ran 
full  into  the  embrace  of  a  gendarme,  who  held  him  tight, 
and  demanded  his  name  and  business. 

"  My  name,"  he  responded,  "  is  Evan  Rhys.  I  am  the 
editor  and  proprietor  of  the  journal  printed  here." 

"In  that  case,  my  friend,"  the  gendarme  answered,  "you 
are  m^'^  prisoner.  Pray  give  yourself  the  trouble  to  come 
this  way." 

He  marshalled  Evan  into  tlie  printing-room,  and  there 
were  seven  or  eight  more  officers  of  the  law.  The  office  of 
the  Henaissance  cle  Vllomme  had  been  raided,  and  its 
plant  legally  seized  only  a  minute  ago.  He  was  just  in 
time  to  witness  the  official  impounding  of  his  property. 
Langlois,  tlie  recognized  printer,  was  leaning  against  a 
type-rack,  blanched  with  terror,  and  murmuring  that  he 


133 


was  not  responsible,  when  Evan  entered.  The  police  made 
but  short  work  of  the  business.  The  forms  were  stripped 
from  the  machine,  all  printed  and  written  documents  on 
the  premises  were  packed,  the  very  reserve  galleys  were 
impounded,  and  the  whole  of  the  spoil,  being  packed  away 
in  a  cart,  was  removed  for  later  examination,  and  Evan  and 
Langlois  were  conducted  to  the  local  police-office.  There, 
a  formal  charge  being  entered  against  them,  tliey  were 
bestowed  for  the  night,  and  left  to  their  own  reflections. 

The  printer  probably  felt  and  thought  otherwise,  but  to 
Evan  this,  tlie  first  taste  of  martyrdom,  was  delicious.  It 
made  him  a  personage  to  his  own  esteem.  These  unholy 
dogs  of  the  law,  he  told  himself  triumphantly,  saw  the 
need  to  be  afraid  of  him,  and  he  indulged  in  unblurred 
visions  of  a  trembling  government.  To  his  imagination 
the  president  marched  up  and  down  his  gilded  chambers, 
pale,  and  gnawing  a  nether  lip,  while  he  awaited  with 
anxiety  the  arrival  of  his  ministers  ;  Paris  was  stirred  to 
its  centre  ;  excited  groups  in  the  cafes  discussed  the  event 
of  the  day  ;  and  under  gray  sheets  of  rain  and  yellow  gas- 
light on  the  boulevards  people  whispered  the  news  to  one 
another.  The  imagination  of  all  these  things  was  as  full 
of  solace  as  the  fact  could  have  been.  A  knowledge  of  the 
fact,  indeed,  might  have  been  heart-breaking  ;  for  none  of 
the  things  the  solitary  and  excited  prisoner  triumphed 
over  were  really  in  course  of  transaction.  The  Renaissance 
of  Man  was  known  at  the  outside  to  a  few  hundreds  of 
people,  and  even  to  them  the  arrest  of  its  issue  was  not  of 
overwhelming  importance.  The  mart^'r  felt  otherwise, 
however,  and  gloried  in  his  chains  until  midnight,  when  he 
fell  beatifically  asleep  prepared  to  face  armies  on  the  mor- 
row. When  the  morrow  came,  he  had  nothing  worse  to 
face  than  a  jack  in  office  of  the  average  juge  d'instruction 
type,  who  barked  at  him  in  the  common,  imperative  Avay 
of  his  tribe,  and   did   his  excellent  French  best  to  make 


134 


justice  ridiculous  and  the  attitude  of  the  accused  seem 
dignified  by  contrast  with  his  own. 

The  court  was  fairly  tilled  with  seedy  people,  most  of 
whom  had  nowhere  else  to  go  ;  but  seated  among  them 
was  a  gray  man,  respectably  attired,  who  watched  the  pro- 
ceedings with  an  interest  in  marked  contrast  with  the 
indifference  displayed  by  most  of  the  steaming  and  ill- 
favored  crowd.  It  had  rained  outside.  The  little  court 
was  closely  packed,  and  the  odor  of  garments  drying  on 
the  bodies  of  their  owners  was  pungent  and  choking,  like 
that  of  the  father  of  all  foxes.  Even  a  careless  observer 
looking  at  the  gray,  respectably  dressed  man  might  have 
thought  him  in  some  points  remarkable.  He  had  a  marble 
mass  of  forehead,  eyes  of  an  extraordinarj^  melancholy  wild 
sweetness,  a  snub  nose,  a  loose  and  protrusive  mouth,  and 
a  huge  gray  beard.  The  upper  part  of  tlie  head  and  face 
cried  angel  and  philosopher  :  the  broad,  coarse  base  of  the 
snub  nose  and  the  brute  mouth  said  animal.  The  whole 
countenance  was  typically  Slavonic.  It  was  marked  with 
intellect,  gentleness,  patience,  courage,  tenacit}',  and  all 
manner  of  animalisms  ;  and  it  was  wrinkled  everywhere, 
like  water  under  a  cat's-paw  of  wind. 

When  the  juge  d'instruction  had  snapped  and  barked, 
and  bullied  and  cajoled,  and  had  exercised  every  faculty 
Qcnown  to  the  law  courts  save  those  of  dignit}^  and  judg- 
ment, and  when  the  prisoners  had  been  allowed  to  pose 
as  men  of  dignity  and  saviors  of  society,  the  hearing  came 
to  an  end.  Evan  and  his  comrade,  the  printer,  who  took 
courage,  after  the  theatrical  French  fashion, from  his  com- 
panion's demeanor,  were  committed  for  trial,  and  taken 
back  to  last  night's  abode.  The  crowd  melted  away  into 
the  mist  and  rain  of  the  streets,  and  the  gray  man  called  a 
fiacre,  and  was  driven  about  his  own  business.  He  was 
present  again  when  the  case  came  on  for  trial  barel}^  a 
fortnight  later.     The  proceedings  here  were  as  brief  and 


135 


decisive  as  in  the  earlier  court  they  had  been  long-drawn 
and  futile. 

In  half  an  hour  the  business  was  over,  Evan  Rhys  and 
Philippe  Langlois  were  each  condemned  to  a  fortnight's 
imprisonment,  and  each  ordered  to  pay  a  fine  of  five  hun- 
dred francs.  The  plant  of  the  journal  was  confiscated  by 
the  state,  and  it  was  ordered  that  all  discovered  copies  of 
the  journal  itself  should  be  destroyed.  When  the  prisoners 
were  removed,  the  gray  man  had  an  interview  with  an 
official  of  the  court,  and  paid  the  fines.  Then  again  he 
found  a  fiacre,  and  Avas  driven  home. 

A  fortnight  later,  in  the  gray  and  slush  of  a  bleak  spring 
morning,  he  was  at  the  door  of  the  jail  from  which  Evan 
Rhys  was  discharged.  The  young  man  walked  out  proudly, 
in  expectation  of  a  popular  reception  for  martyred  valor. 
He  was  pale,  and  his  cheeks  were  even  thinner  and  more 
hollow  than  they  had  been.  There  were  circles  of  bistre 
about  his  eyes,  and  altogether  he  looked  like  a  man  new 
risen  from  a  sick-bed.  There  was  no  popular  reception 
awaiting  him,  but  the  average  blackguard  or  broken- 
hearted crowd  which  awaits  every  jail  deliver}'  in  a  great 
city  stared  at  him,  dull  and  incurious,  as  he  came  upon  the 
street.  There  were  bloated  rascals  in  blue  blouses,  smok- 
ing, and  hiding  their  pipes  in  both  hands,  as  if  the  pipes 
were  secrets,  and  as  ugly  as  themselves.  There  were 
respectable  parents  whose  children  had  gone  astray,  or  at 
least  had  been  caught  for  the  first  time  ;  wives  awaiting 
the  husbands  who  had  been  imprisoned  for  assaulting 
them  ;  pickpockets  with  a  hospitable  handful  of  sous  ready 
to  refresh  comrades  who  had  come  under  the  rigors  of  the 
law. 

Evan  Rhys  stood  for  a  minute,  looking  about  him  and 
recognizing  no  human  creature.  Here,  at  least,  valor  and 
martyrdom  were  not  to  find  their  earthlv  reward.  He 
buttoned  his  coat  about  him,  jammed  his  hat  upon  his  head, 


136 


and  walked  away.  He  felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
turned. 

"  M.  Rhys,"  said  a  voice  for  which  he  liad  no  recogni- 
tion, "  has  forgotten  me  this  many  years." 

Evan  stared  hard  at  the  speaker's  face.  He  could  make 
nothing  of  him.  There  was  a  dim  dream  of  the  man, 
to  be  sure,  in  his  mind  as  having  been  somewhere  seen 
before,  but  the  dream  eluded  identification. 

"  Look  well,"  said  the  stranger.  "  You  will  know  me  bj"" 
and  by." 

Evan  looked  again,  and  looked  hard,  but  the  effort  of 
memory  still  remained  illusive. 

"  I  fancy  I  ought  to  know  J'ou,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Where  have   we   met?" 

"  Do  you  remember  Koollala  ?  " 

Instantly  the  unfamiliar  lineaments  of  the  stranger's  face 
flashed  into  the  remembered  likeness  of  Boris  Petrovna, 
and  Evan  held  him  with  a  beaming  pleasure. 

"  I  saw  you  in  court  at  tlie  first  hearing,  and  again  at  the 
second.  You  puzzled  me,  but  a  good  many  jj'ears  have 
gone  by  since  I  last  saw  you." 

"We  cannot  talk  here,"  said  Petrovna.  "I  have  been 
up  and  abroad  this  three  hours,  and,  early  as  it  is,  I  am 
famishing  for  breakfast.  There  should  be  some  early 
restaurant  hereabout.  You,  too,  I  presume,"  he  added, 
with  a  smile,  "  have  not  yet  breakfasted  ;  or  if  at  all,  not 
too  luxuriously." 

Tiiey  found  a  restaurant,  entered,  ordered  breakfast,  and 
were  served.  The  hot  and  fragrant  coffee  was  refresliing 
and  restorative  to  a  man  who  liad  liad  two  weeks  of  prison 
fare.  The  eggs  d  la  coque,  cutlets  and  fried  potatoes,  the 
glass  or  two  of  petit  bleu,  awoke  a  new  soul  in  the  martyred 
savior  of  society,  and  when  Petrovna  had  called  for  a 
glass  of  cognac  for  himself  and  his  companion,  and  had 
produced  a  paper  of  cigarettes,  life  again  had  sunshine  in 


137 


it,  though  the  drizzle  of  the  Marcli  morning  smeared  the 
window-panes,  and  the  voice  of  the  wind  in  the  almost 
empty  street  was  a  noise  of  lamentation. 

"And  now,"  said  Petrovna,  when  the  meal  was  over,  and 
he  had  paid  the  bill,  "  I  want  to  have  a  serious  talk  with 
you.  Come  home  with  me.  We  are  liable  to  constant 
interruption  here." 

Evan  assented,  Petrovna  amiably  chattering  trifles  by 
the  way. 

'■^Bourgeois,  you  observej"  he  said  with  a  grin,  when  his 
rooms  were  reached — "  respectably  bourgeois.  I  have 
been  here  some  time,  and  am  registered  as  a  rentier.'''' 

*'  You  seem  to  have  prospered  since  I  saw  you  last," 
returned  Evan. 

"  The  cause,"  said  Petrovna,  "  has  prospered  since  you 
saw  me  last.  No  movement  the  world  has  ever  seen  has 
ever  grown  from  such  beginnings  to  such  proportions  in  so 
brief  a  time." 

Evan  with  shrugging  shoulders  glanced  round  the  room, 
took  in  his  companion's  respectable  overcoat,  respectable 
boots,  irreproachable  linen,  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles, 
and  the  gold  watch-chain  which  dangled  across  his  waist- 
coat. 

"  You  are  still  attached  to  the  cause  ?  "  he  asked,  with 
more  than  a  suspicion  of  satire  in  his  voice. 

"  You  might  speak  more  truly,"  Petrovna  retorted,  "  if 
you  said  that  the  cause  was  attached  to  me.  For  3'ears  I 
have  been  its  soul  and  centre,  its  heart  and  brain." 

"  Your  services  seem  not  to  have  been  ill  paid,"  said 
Evan. 

Petrovna  turned  upon  him  with  a  peculiar  smile. 

"  Paid,"  lie  echoed  ;  "  they  have  been  paid  by  a  year  in 
the  oubliettes,  by  exile  to  Siberia,  by  seven  years,  since  I 
saw  you  last,  in  a  Spanish  prison.  They  have  been  paid 
by  poverty  and  misery  for  more  than  half  the  years  I  can 


138 


count  since  the  daj'^  of  my  birth.  It  is  not  for  you  to  sneer 
at  my  payment,  my  young  friend." 

Evan  hung  his  head  a  little  at  this  rebuke,  which  was  in 
part  delivered  with  considerable  fire.  He  had  as  yet  seen 
but  little  of  Petrovna  since  their  new  meeting,  but  he  had 
seen  enough  to  know  that  he  was  ordinaril}^  calm  and 
reticent,  and  he  argued  that  it  took  a  good  deal  to  excite 
him  to  such  a  pitch. 

There  was  no  renewal  of  the  discussion  until  Petrovna 
himself  broached  it  aijain  after  dinner  that  same  eveninaf. 
He  had  taken  Evan  to  a  restaurant,  and  had  given  him  an 
excellent  meal.  Then  he  had  slid  awaj  to  enter  into  talk 
with  a  stranger  who  sat  at  a  corner  table.  Evan,  not 
knowing  what  the  transaction  signified,  saw  Petrovna 
empty  his  pockets  apparently  of  all  their  contents,  and 
hand  over  every  thing  to  the  stranger.  A  pocket-book,  a 
handful  of  gold  and  silver  coin,  the  gold  Avatch  and  chain 
Petrovna  wore,  and  what  looked  like  a  roll  of  notes,  w^ere 
passed  from  one  to  the  other.  The  Russian  came  back 
smiling  to  the  table  at  which  Evan  sat,  jingling  in  his  hand 
two  pieces  of  copper  money. 

"  That  is  for  you,"  he  said,  laying  a  gros  sou  upon  the 
table,  "and  this," — holding  up  another  between  thumb  and 
finger, — "  is  for  me." 

Evan  looked  enquiry,  but  said  nothing. 

"  You  sj)eak  of  what  you  have  done,"  said  the  smiling 
Petrovna.  "  Now,  I  tell  you  that  you  have  done  nothing, 
endured  nothing.  H  you  have  the  courage, — pluck  is  Aour 
English  word,  I  think, — you  shall  come  with  me  armed 
with  that  one  piece  of  mone}'',  and  you  sliall  see  what  it  is 
to  spend  forty-eight  hours  in  Paris  at  this  season  of  tlie 
year  with  no  better  provision  than  that.  I  am  older  than 
you,  but  I  submit  myself  to  the  same  ordeal.  Are  you 
ready  to  face  it  ?  " 

"  Lead  where  you  like,"  said  Evan.     "  I  shall  follow." 


139 


They  passed  into  the  niglit  together.  The  wind  had 
changed,  and  now  came  from  due  north-east,  clanging 
amid  overhanging  signs,  and  roaring  in  the  chimney-pots, 
and  charging  with  bitter  gusts  at  the  corners  of  the 
streets.  Not  many  were  abroad,  and  the  few  who  faced 
the  weather  walked  hurriedl}^,  with  bent  heads  and  rounded 
shoulders. 

The  pale  moon  climbed  over  the  roofs,  and  shone  down 
amid  the  clouds  with  a  gusty  alternation.  In  a  while  the 
flying  scud  massed  itself  together,  and  the  faint  yellow 
disk  vanished.  Then  the  wind  dropped,  and  a  burst  of 
stinging  rain  came  down. 

"  We  shall  miss  our  two  sous'  worth  of  fried  potatoes  in 
the  morning,"  said  Petrovna. 

"  Will  that  matter?"  asked  Evan. 

"Not  at  all,"  the  elder  man  answered. 

They  were  both  thinlj^  clad,  and  miserably,  considering 
the  weather;  and  the  chill  of  the  icy  rain  and  the  breath 
of  the  reviving  wind  began  to  find  its  way  to  the  marrow 
of  their  bones.  They  struck  into  a  brisker  pace,  but  the 
prison  fare  of  the  last  fortnight  had  left  Evan  somewhat 
enfeebled,  and  after  a  few  hundred  yards  he  began  to  gasp, 
and  shortly  came  to  a  stand-still. 

"We  shall  assuredly  miss  our  two  sous'  worth  of  fried 
potatoes  at  this  rate,"  said  Petrovna.  "We  are  yet  better 
off  than  many.  At  least  we  can  buy  a  few  hours  of  shelter, 
and  we  have  no  right  to  be  hungry  before  morning." 

This  time  Evan  returned  no  answer.  Spots  of  white  began 
to  fleck  the  pavement,  disappearing  almost  as  soon  as  seen. 
In  a  minute  or  two  the  snow-flakes  were  eddying  every- 
where, whirling  down  from  the  darkness,  and  fading  from 
the  muddy  pavement  as  they  touched  it.  The  feel  of  the 
pavement  grew  pasty  and  gelatinous  to  the  feet,  and  the 
snow  began  to  lie  ever  so  little  in  gray,  wet  patches.  The 
patches  spread  and  whitened  fast  on  all  level  places.     The 


140 


street  kennels  and  the  puddles  kept  their  gloom,  save 
for  flashes  of  dim  fire,  caught  by  reflection  from  the 
lamps  which  lined  the  road,  or  shone  here  and  tliere  from 
the  windows  of  a  gargotte.  In  half  an  hour  the  wayfarers 
were  whitened  with  moist  and  clinging  snow.  Evan 
plucked  off  the  soft  wide-awake  he  wore,  and  beat  from  its 
brim  twice  its  own  weight.  Then  he  swept  his  arms  and 
shoulders,  and  beat  his  bod}^  with  both  arms. 

"  This  will  never  do,"  said  Petrovna.  "  We  have  chosen 
an  unfortunate  night  for  our  expedition.  We  have  always 
home  before  us  when  we  choose.  Shall  we  turn  ?"  There 
was  a  distinct  touch  of  mockery  in  his  tone. 

"You  may  if  you  like,"  returned  Evan.  "It  is  not  my 
way  to  make  a  bargain  for  the  sake  of  breaking  it." 

"  Aliens,  done  !  "  cried  Petrovna  cheerfull}'.  "  This 
recalls  mv  beloved  Siberia." 

"D Siberia  !"  said  Evan,  with  sudden  emphasis, 

"  With  all  my  soul  !  "  Petrovna  answered,  laughing. 

The  wind  so  drove  tlie  moist  snow  that  at  each  time  of 
speaking  flakes  of  it  flew  into  the  mouth,  and  the  freezing 
air  bit  at  the  tonsils.  Petrovna  turned  his  back  upon  the 
storm  and  halted. 

"Can  you  stand  a  night  of  this?  "  he  asked.  "Or  shall 
we  ask  shelter,  and  forego  breakfast  in  the  morning  ?" 

Evan  was  bhie  with  cold,  and  when  he  answered,  his 
teeth  chattered  noisil}'.  He  would  have  given  the  world 
to  have  hidden  this  sign  of  distress,  for  he  Avas  there  to 
play  the  Spartan. 

"You  are  the  leader  of  this  enterprise,"  he  answered  ; 
"  it  is  my  business  to  follow." 

"Follow,  then,"  said  Petrovna. 

They  were  at  the  door  of  a  wide  hall,  dimly  lighted  by 
a  single  lamp,  and  approached  from  the  street  by  three  or 
four  flagged  steps,  built  in  a  semicircle.  The  floor  of  the 
hall  was  thickly  caked  with  mud.     From  a  side  room  on 


141 


the  ground  floor  came  a  sickly  gleam  of  light,  and  a  noise 
of  riotous  voices. 

PetroVna  led  the  way,  and  they  came  into  a  lofty 
chamber  with  what  had  once  been  a  noble  fireplace.  A 
great  fire  of  wood  and  peat  smouldered  on  the  hearth,  and 
the  room  was  dimly  illuminated  by  two  or  three  lamps, 
which  were  more  prodigal  of  odor  than  of  light.  Seated 
here  and  there  were  great  clumsy  tables  of  blackened  wood, 
Avith  benches  drawn  up  to  them,  and  at  and  on  the  tables 
sat  as  choice  a  sample  of  both  sexes  of  blackguardism  and 
rascaldom  as  even  Paris  could  show.  A  man  with  a  car- 
buncled  nose  and  pins'  heads  of  eyes  sat  drunk  with  a 
comrade  on  his  knee.  He  embraced  that  comrade,  as  foul 
a  rufiian  as  himself,  with  maudlin  terms  of  endearment, 
while  the  woman,  who  had  just  escaped  from  his  caress 
and  had  substituted  the  male  abomination,  shrieked  with 
drunken  laughter  from  a  corner.  This  comed}^  had  too 
much  of  an  air  of  every  day  about  it  to  excite  the  attention 
of  the  crowd.  They  played  dominoes,  they  drank,  they 
discussed  politics  in  the  grisliest  terms,  they  slept  and 
snored.  They  engaged  in  every  diversity  of  employment, 
but  in  one  matter  they  were  unanimous.  Thej^  fed  the  air 
with  odors,  and  the  smell  of  unwashed  humanity,  and  stale 
raiment  drying  in  the  heat,  fought  hard  Avith  the  exhala- 
tions of  the  lamps.  The  blended  airs  were  loathsome,  and 
to  come  on  them  rapidly  from  the  raging  freshness  of  the 
storm-driven  streets  was  to  be  gripped  with  nausea. 

A  man  came  forward  with  an  air  of  authorit}^,  and  asked 
with  what  he  should  serve  the  new-comers. 

"  You  have  a  sou,  comrade  ?  "  asked  Petrovna  of  Evan, 
with  a  feigned  voice  of  humility.     "  I  have  mine." 

"  You  are  late,"  said  the  host.  "  You  will  barel}'  find  a 
place.     You  know  the  Avay  ?  " 

Petrovna  nodded.  The  man  accepted  the  two  copper 
pieces  and   dropped  tliem  into  a  capacious  canvas  pocket 


143 


Avbicli  bung  at  Lis  stomach.  He  tuinetl  on  his  heel,  and 
the  Russian,  with  a  sidelong  beckoning  nod  to  Evan,  made 
his  way  upward  through  the  shadows  of  a  broad  staircase 
with  a  balustrade  of  oak.  The  filthy  house  had  been  a 
mansion  once  u^^on  a  time,  and  wealthy  people  had  lived 
in  it.  It  was  strange  to  think  that  not  a  lost  wretch  who 
found  a  shelter  within  its  walls  had  had  a  deeper  tumble 
from  res2)ectability  than  the  house  itself. 

Evan  followed  his  guide  into  a  great  waste  chamber, 
which  might  have  served  as  an  assembly-room — an  apart- 
ment with  so  lofty  a  roof  that  the  single  oil  lamp  burning 
beneath  it  left  it  invisible.  At  his  first  step  forward  a 
voice  cursed  and  snarled.  He  had  trodden  by  inadvertence 
on  a  sleeper's  nose.  Scores  and  scores  of  noses  gave  forth 
a  sleepy  music.  Some  purred,  some  gasped,  some  snarled 
like  a  dog  with  a  bone,  some  two  or  three  dealt  on  the  air 
a  ponderous  organ  note  which  seemed  to  vibrate  in  the 
floor,  and  this  profound  bass  knitted  all  the  other  tones 
together  as  the  blast  of  the  trombone  unites  the  wandering 
fancies  of  a  German  band. 

Men  and  boys  of  all  ages,  in  rags  Avhich  showed  pale 
trenches  of  flesh,  and  boots  tliat  leaked  out  mud-stained  toe 
or  heel,  lay  so  thickly  scattered  on  the  floor  that  it  was 
difficult  to  pick  a  way  among  them.  The  path  of  the  novice 
was  marked  by  writhings  and  curses,  for  when  he  had  once 
tripped,  he  was  compelled  to  stumble  forward  at  any  hazard. 

At  last  he  found  room  to  sit  in  with  his  body  against  a 
wall,  do\vn  which  an  unwholesome  moisture  rolled.  The 
chill  of  the  night  liquefied  the  breath  of  a  hundred  sleepers 
and  more,  and,  like  their  more  moneyed  friends  below,  the 
gentry  here  were  unanimous  in  stinking.  Wet,  foul  rai- 
ment in  the  act  of  drying  predominated,  and  the  dirty 
lamp  added  its  sickening  quota.  At  ever}'  inspiration  the 
air  seemed  to  glide  down  the  throat  like  a  snake,  so  foul  it 
was,  so  thick  and  dense. 


143 


"This  is  an  agreeable  change,"  Petrovna  said,  lolling 
his  back  against  the  wall,  and  cautiously  stretching  out 
his  legs.  "  This  is  an  agreeable  change  from  the  dormitory 
oftheLycee.     Eh?" 

He  spoke  in  English,  and  an  English  voice  near  at  hand 
crashed  out  with  an  execration. 

"  Hold  your  d cackle  !  "  cried  the  voice. 

There  was  a  groaning  murmur  as  the  tired  wretches 
stirred  and  turned,  and  then  the  nasal  concert  went  on 
again  in  full  blast — hiss  and  chuckle,  and  ventriloquial 
moan  of  far-away  ship's  siren,  and  spurting  breath  as  of  a 
swimmer  against  the  wave,  and  the  curt  snort  of  the 
supercilious  hog,  and  under  all,  and  over  all,  and  entwined 
with  all,  the  massive  voices  of  the  two  or  three. 

The  sleepy  chorus,  the  heavy  air,  the  languid  heat 
which  succeeded  the  biting  cold,  all  tended  toward  a  swoon 
into  insensibility  rather  than  sleep,  and  in  a  little  while 
Evan  succumbed.  The  light  flickered,  the  wavering  noises 
blended,  and  all  on  a  sudden,  with  a  little  shudder  of  sick- 
ness and  returning  warmth  and  comfort  and  repulsion,  he 
lost  consciousness  of  his  surroundings.  He  awoke,  with  a 
head  like  lead,  to  hear  a  voice  bawling  with  the  monotony 
of  long  usage  : 

"  Messieurs,  minuit  a  sonne.  Les  ofiiciers  sont  a  la 
porte.  Douze  heures  !  Douze  heures  !  Enleve  toi,  done, 
cochon  !     Minuit,  minuit  !  " 

He  saw  that  Petrovna  Avas  rising  to  his  feet,  and  that 
the  sleepy  crowd  was  surging  and  crawling. 

The  monotone  went  on,  and  a  swinging  lantern  seemed 
to  punctuate  its  phrases. 

"  II  faut  partir  !  Minuit  a  sonne  !  Enlevez-vous,  mes- 
sieurs.    II  faut  partir  !  " 

The  dreadful,  pitiable  crowd  arose,  and  melted  away. 
Men  stumbled  down  the  broad  staircase,  rubbing  their 
eyes  and  yawning.     A  great-coated  ofiicer  of  police,  with 


144 


snow  on  his  shoulder  like  an  epaulet,  stood  watching  to 
see  that  the  room  was  cleared. 

The  snow  outside  whirled  as  if  in  a  touruiante,  and  or* 
the  ground  it  lay  thick,  smeared  by  a  hundred  bestial  feet. 
The  wretches  wandered  devious,  shuddering,  with  hump- 
ing shoulders  and  self-embracing  arms.  Their  tattered 
foot-gear  sobbed  and  sucked  at  the  wet  pavement. 

"  What  is  this  ? "  asked  Evan,  dizzy  in  the  scourged 
night  air  after  the  fetid  atmosphere  of  the  room  in  which 
he  had  fallen  asleep.  "  I  thought  we  had  secured  a  night's 
lodging," 

"The  place  is  not  licensed  as  a  lodging-house,"  returned 
Petrovna,  "and  after  midnight  the  patron  has  no  right  to 
harbor  any  body.  We  are  free  of  Paris  until  daybreak. 
We  must  either  march  or  freeze." 

Once  more  Evan  followed  the  leader's  footsteps.  His 
mind  was  in  a  haze,  and  he  dreamed  as  he  ploughed  his 
way.  On  a  sudden  Petrovna  paused,  and  Evan  j^aused 
also.  He  lifted  his  eyes  and  knew  the  surroundings.  They 
had  been  for  many  years  familiar  to  him.  He  was  on  the 
Quai  d'Orsay,  and  before  the  hotel  of  the  Due  de  Marais 
Castel.  Lights  gleamed  in  every  Avindow.  Over  the 
whole  road  ran  the  tracks  of  Avheels,  and  the  snow  was 
churned  to  a  gray  paste.  Even  now  late  comers  to  some 
festivity  within  doors  were  being  set  down. 

"You  know  the  interior  of  that  house  fairly  well?" 
Petrovna  asked. 

"Fairly  well,"  Evan  ansAvcred,  with  an  inward  sense  of 
bitteiness. 

"Is  it  just?"  asked  his  companion,  gripping  him  tightly 
b}''  the  arm.  "Is  it  the  will  of  Heaven,  do  you  think? 
You  have  seen  Avhat  you  have  seen.  You  know  what  goes 
on  here  ! "  He  pointed  with  a  passionate  hand  to  the 
illuminated  house.  "  The  price  of  a  table  ornament — the 
cost  of  a  bouquet — would  have  housed,  would  have  fed, 


145 


them  all.     Shall  it  last  ?     You,  child  of  the  people  ;  you, 

son  of  a  murdered  father  ;  you,  descendant  of  generations 

of  the  oppressed — shall  it  last  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Evan  Rliys.     "  By  God  !  it  shall  not  last." 

Petrovna  changed  from  fire  to  ice  in  a  second. 

"  The  gulf  is  a  little  too  wide,  you  think  ?  " 

"Yes,"  Evan  Rhys  answered.     "  The  gulf  is  a  little  too 

wide." 


10 


CHAPTER  III 

They  crossed  the  river  and  traversed  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde.  They  must  needs  move  to  keep  their  blood 
flowing  and  their  limbs  from  stiffening.  At  the  foot  of 
the  Rue  Castiglione  they  came  upon  an  old  man  plodding 
through  the  freezing  slush  at  the  side  of  a  donkey-cart. 
He  paused  to  light  his  pipe,  and  they  saw  that  he  was  a 
very  old  man  indeed,  and  bent  with  infirmities  and  years. 
He  had  a  frosty  stubble  of  a  beard,  and  his  rheumy  old 
eyes  were  rimmed  with  red. 

"  Comfortless  weather  to  be  out  in,"  said  Petrovna. 

The  old  man  gave  a  suck  at  his  pipe,  and  laid  his  hand 
on  the  rein  of  his  patient  ass,  who  stood  hanging  his  head 
in  the  roadway,  as  if  reconciled  to  all  things. 

*'  II  faut  vivre,"  said  the  old  fellow. 

"  II  faut  mourir  aussi,  vieux  camarade,"  returned 
Petrovna. 

"  C'est  encore  plus  vrai,"  the  old  man  answered,  and 
went  on  his  way  with  his  dumb  companion. 

"  What  brings  him  out  at  such  an  hour  ?  "  asked  Evan, 
hugging  himself  as  he  stared,  shivering,  after  him. 

"Who  knows?"  said  Petrovna.  "There  are  many 
ways  of  making  a  living  in  a  great  city." 

It  was  between  one  and  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
the  streets  were  like  a  desert.  Even  the  police  seemed  to 
have  left  them.  The  column  in  the  Place  Vendume  was 
barely  visible  against  the  lowering  sky,  and  even  the  tops 
of  the  houses  were  indistinctly  seen.  The  night  seemed  to 
grow  more  bitter  and  inhospitable  moment  by  moment. 
In  the  profound  silence  of  the  street  the  droppings  of  the 

146 


147 


thaw  sounded  distinct  and  nois}^,  though  they  would  have 
been  inaudible  by  day,  when  the  loud  clatter  of  traffic  was 
awake. 

"  Let  us  keep  stirring,"  said  Petrovna,  "  or  we  shall 
freeze." 

"  Ugh  !  "  returned  Evan  ;  "  this  is  an  experiment  in 
poverty  with  a  vengeance." 

"  It  is  not  even  an  experiment,"  his  companion  declared. 
"We  miss  the  one  ingredient  which  makes  the  dish  of 
poverty  nauseous." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"  Despair.  We  are  cold  and  wet,  to  be  sure,  but  we 
have  left  food  and  warmth  behind  us,  and  can  go  back  to 
them  at  any  minute  if  our  courage  fails.  We  have  learned 
as  much  at  least  as  this  jaunt  could  teach  us.  Do  you  care 
to  go  on  with  it?  " 

"  I  have  told  you  already,"  Evan  answered,  "  tliat  I 
follow  my  leader." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Petrovna,  with  a  laugh,  "  since  you  are 
not  to  be  tempted,  let  us  talk  about  other  things.  We  are 
as  private  here  as  we  should  be  in  the  middle  of  the  Great 
Sahara.  Let  me  put  a  question  to  you,  ray  young  friend. 
Are  you  one  of  us,  or  are  you  only  one  of  those  who  are 
determined  and  courageous  on  paper  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  one  of  us  '  ?  " 

"  When  I  ask  if  you  are  one  of  us,"  said  Petrovna,  paus- 
ing to  lay  a  fore-finger  upon  his  breast,  "  I  mean  to  ask  if 
you  are  one  of  those  who  are  determined  that  at  all  hazards 
the  present  miseries  of  the  world  shall  cease." 

"At  all  hazards?"  Evan  answered. 

"  At  all  hazards,"  Petrovna  repeated. 

"That  is  not  a  question  to  be  lightly  answered,"  said 
the  young  man,  after  a  moment's  indecisio!i. 

"  No,"  Petrovna  assented,  "  it  is  not  a  question  lightly 
to  be  answered.     Think  it  over  as  we  walk." 


148 


They  went  on  through  tlie  desei't  streets,  Petrovna  steer- 
ing northward  more  by  hazard  than  design,  and  Evan, 
sunk  in  many  conflicting  thoughts,  keeping  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  him. 

"  He  that  is  not  with  us  is  against  us,"  said  Petrovna  in 
a  while.  "  The  time  for  the  war  of  words  is  over.  We 
must  come  to  deeds." 

"  Let  me  think,"  said  Evan  impatiently. 

"  Good,"  returned  the  elder  man  ;  and  so  for  another 
space  they  went  on  in  silence. 

'*  For  one  thing,"  said  Evan,  "  3-ou  and  I  don't  know 
very  much  about  each  other.  It  might  be  wortli  while  on 
both  sides  to  know  a  good  deal  more  before  we  enter  into 
any  compact." 

"  I  know  almost  as  mu  h  of  j^ou,"  returned  Petrovna, 
"  as  I  need  to  know.  Ever  since  I  left  my  Spanish  prison 
I  have  kept  an  eye  upon  3'ou  more  or  less." 

"  What  brought  you  in  a  Spanish  prison  ?  "  Evan  asked. 

"  There  are  people,"  the  elder  man  responded  drjdy, 
"who  have  alwaj^s  regarded  my  political  ideas  as  extreme. 
I  was  credited  Avith  an  intention  to  translate  Christ's 
vicar  to  his  rightful  place  in  heaven — or  elsewhere." 

"You  were  engaged  in  a  plot  against  the  Pope  ?  " 

"It  was  so  concluded,"  said  Petrovna.  "I  lay  seven 
years  in  prison,  but  fortunately  not  under  my  own  name. 
Since  tlien  I  have  watched  you  pretty  closely,  for  I  have 
always  had  hope  of  you.  As  for  me,  my  young  friend,  you 
may  secure  my  credentials  from  any  man  who  knows  the 
interior  history  of  the  propaganda  for  this  last  thirty  years." 

"  How  do  I  know  that  you  have  not  turned  mouchard 
since  the  day  I  left  you  at  Marseilles  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  very  right  and  just  enquiry,"  Petrovna 
answered,  perfectly  unmoved.  "  It  is  one  which  can  be 
answered  very  easily  ;  but  you  are  justified  in  making  it. 
I  like  you,  indeed,  the  better  for  your  caution." 


149 


"  I  will  answer  you  better,"  said  the  young  man,  "  when 
I  know  you  better." 

He  had  scarcely  spoken  the  words  Avhen  a  tremendous 
booming  noise  at  a  little  distance  broke  upon  the  air,  and  a 
second  later  he  was  hurled  from  his  feet,  and  thrown  with 
great  violence  against  a  street-door.  He  stared  about  him 
half  stunned,  unable  to  form  an  idea  of  what  had  happened. 
Petrovna  was  scrambling  from  the  wet  pavement  a  dozen 
yards  away,  and,  when  he  had  reached  his  feet,  stood  feel- 
ing himself  all  over,  cautiously,  as  if  in  search  of  breakages. 

"  That  was  Laurent,  for  a  million,"  Evan  heard  him 
murmur,     "  Are  you  hurt  ?  "  he  asked,  a  second  later. 

"  Not  so  far  as  I  can  tell,"  the  lad  answered,  in  a  be- 
wildered way.     "  What  was  it  ?  " 

There  had  been  a  general  crash  of  falling  glass,  which 
neither  of  them  had  noticed,  and  already  excited  voices 
were  crying  and  calling  aloud  in  every  house  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. The  street,  which  had  been  as  desert  as  the  sea, 
and  as  silent  as  the  grave,  had  suddenly  broken  into  mad 
clamor.  A  huge  volume  of  gray  smoke  floated  over  the 
house-tops,  and  in  a  very  little  while  began  to  lighten  and 
to  assume  a  reddish  hue.  Petrovna,  looking  in  the  direc- 
tion from  which  it  came,  muttered  to  himself  once  more, 
loud  enough  for  his  companion  to  overhear  : 

"  That  is  Laurent  assuredly." 

In  an  almost  incredibly  short  space  of  time  the  loads 
were  crowded  with  half-clad  people,  who  rushed  toward 
the  scene  of  the  disaster.  Petrovna  seized  a  lad  who 
clattered  by  him  wrapped  in  a  trailing  blanket. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  this  street  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Rue  de  Pot  d'Etain." 

Evan  saw  him  shake  his  head  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
bad  received  confirmation  of  a  fear.  The  companions 
hurried  along  for  a  distance  of  three  or  four  hundred  j^ards, 
and  came  upon  a  scene  of  awful  devastation.     The  houses 


150 


hereabouts  were  all  of  a  weather-stained  and  sordid  type, 
but  they  were  lofty.  In  one  place  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  street,  looking  northward,  there  was  a  liuge  wedge- 
shaped  gap  with  rough  edges,  and  in  front  of  it  the  road 
was  covered  with  debris.  On  the  other  side  of  the  way  the 
houses  for  a  space  of  fifty  yards  or  so  looked  as  if  they  had 
sustained  a  terrible  bombardment.  Every  thing  was  clearly 
visible  now  by  the  light  of  the  flames  which  sprang  from 
the  base  of  the  huge  ragged  Avedge.  The  awe-struck, 
curious,  or  stujjid  faces  of  the  crowd,  the  unkempt  hair, 
the  wild  deshabille  in  which  everj^-bodj^  was  attired,  the 
ghastly  figures,  many  of  them  cut  and  bleeding,  which 
stood  rending  the  night  with  shrieks  of  pain  and  terror, 
were  all  as  clearly  seen  as  if  it  had  been  broad  noon. 

The  police  came  hurrying  up  in  force,  and,  pressing  back 
the  maddened  people,  formed  a  cordon  about  the  ruins. 
The  fire-engines  came  thundering  along.  Calm,  stalwart 
men  appeared  upon  the  scene  with  stretchers  for  the 
trans23ort  of  the  wounded.  Evan  and  Petrovna  found 
themselves  side  hj  side  in  the  fore  front  of  the  crowd,  so 
tightl}'^  packed  and  so  urged  forward  by  the  pressure  of 
the  multitude  that  an  escape  from  it  seemed  hardl}^  possi- 
ble. The  wounded  were  to  be  counted  by  scores,  and  for 
hours  to  come  it  would  be  out  of  question  for  any  man  to 
estimate  the  number  of  the  dead.  Everj'wherc,  amid 
balks  of  timber  and  heaps  of  brick-work  and  great  blocks 
of  stone  and  piles  of  broken  stucco,  there  were  mutilated 
remnants  of  humanity.  There  was  a  smell  of  roasting 
flesh  upon  the  air,  and  Evan  sliuddered  with  a  repulsion  so 
terrible  that  it  sliook  him  from  head  to  feet,  and  inspired 
his  very  soul  with  nausea.  It  seemed  as  if  the  whole  dis- 
trict were  afoot  by  this  time,  and  the  tumult  of  excited 
voices  rose  like  a  storm.  Thousands  of  tliroats  vociferated 
at  once  ;  but  out  of  the  unformed  chaos  and  babel  of  noise 
one  phrase  seemed  gradually  to  grow  : 


151 


"  Les  anarcliistes  !  " 

Hundreds  of  voices  spoke  tlie  words  together.  "  The 
work  of  the  anarchists  !  Ah  !  those  vile  anarchists  ! 
Down  with  the  anarchists  !  "  The  cr3^  sprang  ever^'where, 
louder  and  louder,  wilder  and  wilder,  more  and  more 
savage.  Evan  forgot  his  horror  at  the  scene  before  him 
in  recollections  more  personal  to  himself.  If  at  such  a 
moment  of  public  delirium  he  were  seen  and  recognized, 
he  would  not  have  set  his  life  at  a  })in''s  fee.  He  looked 
at  Petrovna,  who  stood  calm  and  observant  amid  all  the 
roaring  din,  and  watched  the  action  of  the  firemen  as 
coolly  to  all  appearance  as  he  would  have  watched  a  spec- 
tacle upon  the  stage.  It  looked  for  a  while  as  if  the  two 
were  doomed  to  remain  there  for  hours  at  least  ;  but  the 
elements  had  a  word  to  say  to  that  question.  A  steady, 
heavy  rain  began  to  pour,  and  the  crowd  so  greatly  thinned 
that  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour  retreat  was  possible. 
Petrovna  tapped  Evan  upon  the  shoulder,  and  the  two 
glided  away. 

From  tlie  Chateau  Rouge  they  had  found  but  a  confused 
route  to  Batignollcs,  wandering  with  no  other  aim  than 
to  pass  away  the  hours  of  the  miserable  night.  Now  Pe- 
trovna led  the  way  resolutely,  though  it  was  half  an  hour 
before  Evan,  to  whom  that  quarter  of  Paris  was  strange, 
discovered  tliat  his  guide  was  leading  in  the  direction  of 
his  own  apartments,  at  the  far  end  of  the  Boulevard  Vol- 
taire, near  the  Place  de  la  Nation.  The  concierge  there 
was  asleep  in  his  glass  box  by  the  side  of  a  dimly  burning 
lamp,  but  atPetrovna's  call  he  mechanically  pulled  a  string 
which  released  the  inner  door  from  its  fastening.  In  the 
living-room  the  last  embers  of  a  wood  fire  still  gleamed 
on  the  hearth.  Petrovna  knelt  down  and  piled  up  a  heaj) 
of  logs  from  the  basket  beside  the  fireplace,  and  then,  pull- 
ing down  the  reverberator,  had  a  great  blaze  roaring  up 
the  chimney  in  a  minute  or  two. 


152 


Evan  dropped  into  an  arm-chair,  wet  to  the  skin,  chilled 
to  the  bone,  and  sickened  by  the  memory  of  the  scene  so 
lately  witnessed.  His  companion  in  the  meanwhile  found 
a  bunch  of  ke^^s,  opened  a  buffet,  and  drew  from  it  a 
decanter  of  cognac  and  a  couple  of  wineglasses.  He  filled 
them  both,  and  pushed  one  toward  Evan,  who,  after  look- 
ing at  him  dimly,  and  without  apprehension  for  an  instant, 
seized  the  glass,  drained  it,  and  held  it  out  for  more. 
Petrovna  filled  it  up  a  second  time,  and,  having  emptied 
his  own  glass,  began  to  divest  himself  of  his  soaked  coat 
and  waistcoat. 

"  I  can  supply  you  also  with  the  material  for  a  change," 
he  said,  "  and  you  had  better  make  it.  Our  experiment  in 
poverty  is  over  for  the  time  being.     I  have  other  fish  to  f  r^'." 

He  bustled  into  his  bedroom,  and  returned  with  a  suit  of 
clothes,  which  he  threw  upon  the  floor. 

"  You  are  taller  and  slimmer  than  I  am,"  he  said,  "  and 
they  will  not  fit  you  very  picturesquely,  but  they  are 
better  than  nothing." 

He  turned  again  into  the  bedroom,  and  Evan  sat  in  the 
arm-chair  stupefied.  Petrovna  was  back  in  five  minutes, 
and  found  him  thus,  staring  vacantly  at  the  reverberator, 
which  by  this  time  had  grown  to  a  dull  red,  and  made 
a  loud  crackling  sound  in  the  heat. 

"  Take  a  little  more  cognac,"  said  the  Russian.  "  You 
are  overtired.  I  should  have  remembered  your  two  weeks 
of  prison  fare  before  I  put  you  to  such  an  ordeal." 

He  laid  a  hand  upon  Evan's  shoulder  as  he  spoke  ;  but 
the  young  man  rose  with  a  sudden  and  unexpected  vivid- 
ness of  movement,  and  stared  at  him  witli  wide-open  e3'es, 
full  of  horror. 

"  You  know  something  of  what  happened  to-night?  "  lie 
said. 

"Yes,  ray  friend,"  l*etrovna  answered  with  tranquillity. 
"I  know  something,  and  I  can  guess  the  rest." 


153 


"Is  that  the  fruit  of  your  progaganda  ?  "  the  younger 
man  demanded,  shaking  all  over,  half  from  the  clinging 
cold  of  his  wet  clothing,  and  half  from  horror. 

"  No,"  said  Petrovna  quietly,  "  It  was  a  pure  and 
simple  accident." 

"  I  heard  you  speak  twice  of  Laurent.     Who  is  Laurent  ?  " 

"You  had  better  cliange  your  wet  clothes,"  said  the 
elder  man  iraperturbably.  "  We  will  talk  together  after- 
ward. It  is  dangerous  to  sit  as  you  are  doing,  let  me  tell 
you." 

"I  will  take  no  aid  or  service  fx'om  you,"  Evan  answered, 
"  until  I  know  something  more." 

"You  will  do  as  j^ou  please  about  that,"  the  otiier 
retorted.     "  But  I  have  many  things  to  see  to." 

He  opened  a  secretaire  which  stood  upon  a  little  table 
in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  began  to  rummage  among 
its  contents. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  cried  Evan,  advancing 
toward  him  passionately,  "  that  you  make  Avar  against  the 
suffering  and  laborious  poor  ?  Is  this  night's  work  part  of 
the  propaganda  by  deed  you  talk  about?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  elder  man,  "  it  is  no  part  of  the  proga- 
ganda. I  have  already  told  you  it  is  an  accident.  The 
cause  has  suffered  a  great  disaster,  and  I  very  much  fear 
we  have  lost  a  great  man,  one  of  our  most  capable,  our 
bravest,  and  most  devoted." 

Evan  started  as  if  a  new  light  broke  in  upon  him. 

"  Laurent,"  he  murmured  once  or  twice,  "  Laurent." 

"You  should  remember  him,"  said  Petrovna.  "He  was 
not  so  long  ago  a  comrade  of  your  own  at  the  School  of 
Chemistry." 

"  I  thought  he  had  left  Paris.  I  understood  he  bad  gone 
to  London." 

"  He  spent  a  little  time  in  London,"  Petrovna  responded, 
busying  himself  over  the  contents  of  the  secretaire  by  the 


154 


light  of  a  candle.  "  He  returned  two  years  back,  and  Las 
since  been  engaged  in  experiment  and  investigation.  I  am 
afraid  we  have  lost  hiui." 

"  You  think,"  asked  Evan,  "  that  the  explosion  took 
place  in  his  laboratory  ?  " 

"  That  is  almost  an  absolute  certainty,"  said  Petrovna  ; 
"  but  we  cannot  yet  be  sure  that  he  was  there.  It  might 
have  happened  in  his  absence.  If  he  were  dealing  with 
explosives  of  a  very  sensitive  nature,  as  he  might  have 
been,  a  cat,  a  rat,  or  a  mouse  might  have  been  the  cause  of 
the  mischief.  We  shall  know  more  in  the  course  of  the 
day,  but  I  shall  be  sorry  if  we  have  lost  Laurent." 

"  You  take  all  this  very  coolly,"  cried  Evan. 

"  Like  a  veteran,  m}'^  young  friend,"  the  other  answered. 
"  I  have  seen  too  much  to  be  easily  disturbed." 

He  went  on  calmly  sorting  the  pajiers  he  searched  for  in 
the  little  secretaire,  and  presently,  b}^  the  light  of  the 
candle,  made  up  a  number  of  them  into  a  small  bundle. 
He  went  over  this  minutely,  and  then,  walking  deliber- 
ately to  tlie  fireplace,  dropped  the  papers  one  b}^  one 
into  the  flames,  beating  down  with  great  care  such 
fragments  as  rose  upon  the  hot  wind  of  the  fire,  until  the 
last  fragment  was  consumed.  To  Evan  this  was  signifi- 
cant of  a  fear  lest  his  aj^artment  should  be  visited  by  the 
l)olice  and  searched  ;  but  if  Petrovna  were  disturbed  by  any 
such  apprehension,  he  gave  no  other  outer  sign  of  it. 

"  Come,"  he  said  at  length  ;  "  you  will  decide  in  your 
own  way  in  jour  own  time.  In  the  meanwhile  I  am 
dressed  for  the  da}^  and  will  take  the  arm-chair.  You, 
since  you  have  not  thought  fit  to  change,  had  better  take 
the  bed.  My  dear  child,"  he  added,  in  answer  to  a  move- 
ment of  objection,  "I  pledge  you  to  nothing.  I  ask  you 
for  nothing.  You  shall  choose  for  yourself,  and  you  will 
choose  none  the  less  clearlj^  for  a  night's  rest." 

What  with  the  long  hours  in  the  nipping  air,  the  emo- 


155 


tion  he  had  passed  through,  the  two  wineglasses  of  cognac 
he  had  taken,  and  the  change  of  temperature,  the  young 
man  was  utterly  worn  out.  He  argued  sleepily  within 
himself  that  it  was  of  no  use  further  to  fight  against  the 
general  condition  of  things  ;  and  so,  almost  falling  asleep 
as  he  undressed,  he  crept  into  Petrovna's  bed,  and  lay  there 
like  a  log,  until  a  loud  knocking  at  the  outer  door  awoke 
him.  He  saw  that  it  was  broad  da^'light,  and  the  fra- 
grant odor  of  strong  coffee  assailed  his  nostrils  at  the 
moment  at  which  he  turned.  Petrovna's  voice  sang  out 
quite  cheerfully  in  the  next  room,  calling  on  the  person 
who  knocked  to  wait  a  little.  Evan  sat  up  in  bed,  won- 
dering if  this  were  a  domiciliary  visit  from  the  police.  The 
first  words  of  the  new-comer,  uttered  as  soon  as  Petrovna 
had  opened  the  door,  disabused  his  mind  of  this  fancy. 

"You  heard  ?  "  asked  a  voice  in  English. 

"  I  was  there,"  returned  Petrovna,  closing  the  door  as 
he  spoke. 

Evan  conjectured  some  signal  of  caution  made  by 
Petrovna,  for  the  visitor's  voice  sank  into  an  inaudible 
whisper,  and  a  hand  silently  closed  the  door  between  the 
bedroom  and  the  living-room.  Then  voices  went  on  in  a 
guarded  murmur,  and  Evan  was  falling  half  asleep  Avhen 
his  host  entered  the  room,  and  laid  his  clothes  upon  the  bed. 

"  I  dried  these  for  you  last  night,"  he  said.  "  Coffee  is 
ready.     You  had  better  get  up  and  dress." 

The  lad  obeyed,  and,  attiring  himself  in  the  well-lighted 
bedroom  before  a  looking  glass,  thought  himself  seedy  and 
repulsive-looking.  His  clothes,  which  were  not  of  the 
best  material  to  begin  Avith,  had  been  carelessly  dried,  and 
had  shrunk  considerably,  so  that  his  wrists  and  ankles 
stuck  out  gauntly.  His  linen  was  yellow,  crumpled,  and 
disreputable  ;  and  his  boots  were  covered  with  a  paste  of 
half-dried  mud. 

While  he  was  surveying  himself  distastefully,  Petrovna's 


156 


deep  voice  called  out  to  him  to  say  that  coffee  was  growing 
cold.  He  answered  the  summons,  and  found  himself  in  the 
presence  of  two  strangers.  He  had  guessed  at  one  onh'  ; 
and  he  knew  by  a  kind  of  instinct  which  of  the  two  it  was 
of  whose  presence  he  had  been  unaware.  This,  to  take 
him  first,  was  a  secretive-looking,  small  man,  who  stood, 
a  little  bent,  with  his  hands  clasped  together.  He  was 
dressed  in  respectable  black  broadcloth  ;  and  was  so  spick 
and  span  that  he  might  have  been  purposely  attired  that 
morning  for  a  bourgeois  wedding.  He  wore  a  white  tie, 
and  his  linen  was  unexceptionable.  Despite  the  condi- 
tion of  the  streets,  there  was  no  spot  upon  the  lustre  of  his 
boots.  In  face  and  attitude  he  was  stealtli  personified  ; 
and  Evan  noticed  from  the  first  that  except  when  his  eyes 
were  veiled  they  were  never  still  for  a  single  second,  and 
that  he  never  b}'  any  chance  looked  in  the  face  of  any 
body  whose  glance  for  the  merest  instant  challenged  his 
own.  So  long  as  he  himself  was  unregarded  lie  would 
steal  quick,  dai'ting  glances  from  face  to  face  ;  but  at  the 
moment  of  encounter  Avith  another's  gaze  his  eye  dropped, 
and  his  face  was  like  a  shuttered  window.  The  otlier 
stranger  was  of  a  different  type — a  man  tall,  gaunt,  and 
upright  ;  a  man  Avho  threw  back  his  shoulders  and  folded 
his  arms  with  a  theatrical  exaggeration  of  the  military 
attitude.  He  was  hook-beaked  and  grizzled,  and  his  face, 
tanned  by  the  sun  and  wind  of  many  climates,  was  deeply 
wrinkled.  He  wore  a  great,  swaggering  military  mustache  ; 
and  his  eyes,  which  were  of  an  astonishing  pallor, — the 
palest  conceivable  gray  blue,  with  a  pin-point  of  black 
pupil, — had  a  curious  inward  look.  But  for  the  intense 
speck  of  dark  in  the  middle  of  these  strange  orbs  they 
would  have  looked  like  those  of  a  blind  man. 

"  M.  Georges  Dusaulx,"  said  Petrovna,  waving  a  hand 
in  the  direction  of  the  small  man  in  the  I'espectable  broad- 
cloth, "  Mr.  Evan  Rhys." 


157 


Evan  bowed,  and  the  little  man  cast  one  furtive  glance 
at  him,  nodded,  and  began  to  march  with  cat-like  steps  up 
and  down  Jhe  room,  studying  the  pattern  of  the  carpet  with 
great  intentness. 

"  If  you  have  not  yet  taken  coffee,  gentlemen,"  said 
Petrovna,  "  will  you  join  us  ?  "  The  gentlemen  had  taken 
coffee.  "  Can  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  cognac  this  bitter 
morning  ?  " 

"  Not  for  me,"  cried  M.  Georges  Dusaulx,  with  emphasis. 
He  waved  both  hands  vehemently  against  the  suggestion, 
but  the  military  man  received  the  proposal  with  a  loud  and 
enthusiastic  "  Ha  !  Ha  !  "  and  rubbed  his  hands. 

Petrovna  unlocked  the  buffet  in  which  he  kept  his 
decanter,  and  as  he  stooped  before  it  said  :  "  Your  pardon, 
general ;  I  had  forgotten  to  introduce  my  young  friend. 
General  Vincent,  Mr.  Evan  Rhys." 

The  general  blinked  his  pale  eyes,  and  nodded  in  a  very 
curt  and  military  manner. 

"I  beg  you  not  to  suppose,  sir,"  he  said,  "that  because 
I  bear  a  military  title  I  ever  held  the  commission  of  the 
queen.  I  gained  my  rank  in  the  republic  of  Del  Oro,  and 
my  sword  has  always  been  at  the  service  of  the  oppressed." 

Petrovna  set  the  decanter  of  cognac  and  a  pair  of 
glasses  on  the  table.  As  he  did  so  he  glanced  at  M. 
Dusaulx,  who  caught  his  eye  for  the  mere  fraction  of  a 
second. 

"No,  no,  really,"  said  the  eminently  respectable  person. 
"  Let  me  be  candid  with  you."  Evan  found  himself 
smilinii-.  Tlie  ideas  of  candor  and  M.  Dusaulx  seemed 
curiously  apart.  "  I  have  a  temptation  in  that  direction, 
and  my  only  plan  is  not  to  yield." 

The  warrior  filled  his  wineglass  to  the  brim,  and  sipped 
it  with  an  air  of  relisli.  The  little  man  prowled  up  and 
down  the  room,  casting  swift  and  furtive  glances  at  the 
decanter. 


158 


"That  is  an  astonishingly  fine  cognac,"  he  said  after 
a  while.     "  I  remember  it." 

"Common  stuff  enough,"  returned  Petrovna,  munching 
at  his  roll  and  sipping  at  his  coffee. 

"My  dear  Petrovna,"  said  the  other,  "you  do  yourself 
an  injustice.  You  do  that  admirable  liquor  an  injustice." 
He  began  to  fondle  the  decanter  with  both  hands.  Then, 
having  turned  it  upside  down,  he  withdrew  the  stopper 
and  smelled  at  it  with  the  manner  of  a  connoisseur.  Next 
he  touched  it  with  the  tip  of  the  finger,  and  applied  the 
finger  to  his  tongue.  "Yes,"  he  said,  with  the  doubtful 
accent  of  an  enquirer  reluctant  to  commit  himself,  "I 
think  it  is  the  same.  I  really  fancy  I  remember  it." 
With  this  he  poured  out  half  a  glass  and  sipped  at  it. 
Evan,  watching  him,  saw  a  red  flush  steal  into  his  droop- 
ing eyelids,  and  spread  over  the  cheek-bones.  He  emptied 
the  glass  suddenly  with  an  air  of  decision.  "  That,"  he 
said,  "  is  the  same  brandy,"  and,  turning  away  from  the 
table,  with  the  decanter  in  one  hand,  and  the  wineglass  in 
another,  filled  up  again  to  the  brim,  and  tossed  the  fiery 
spirit  down  his  throat  as  if  it  had  been  water. 

Again  a  knock  sounded  at  the  door,  and  Petrovna  rose 
to  answer  it.  This  time  a  portly  elderly  gentleman,  with 
a  clean-shaven  face  and  long  silver  hair,  entered  the  room. 
lie  wore  a  look  of  marked  benevolence,  and  the  profusion 
of  his  white  hair  and  the  scrupulosity  of  his  attire  gave 
him  the  aspect  of  a  college  professor.  His  eja^brows  were 
jet  black  and  very  mobile.  When  he  removed  his  hat,  he 
displayed  a  beautiful  dome  of  bald  forehead. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  looking  about  him  with  a  smile,  "  that 
you  have  heard." 

"Yes,"  said  Petrovna,  "  we  have  heard.  Allow  me  to 
introduce  to  you,  sir,  iny  j^oung  friend  Evan  Rhys." 

"  I  have  the  honor,"  said  Evan,  "  to  be  known  already 
to  M.  Paul  Cadoudal." 


159 


M.  Paul  Cadoudal,  in  effect,  was  no  other  than  the  pro- 
fessor of  logic  and  rhetoric  in  that  great  educational  institu- 
tion in  which  the  young  man  had  been  bred,  Evan  was 
mightily  surprised  to  find  him  here,  though  all  the  world 
knew  that  the  eminent  logician  had  a  theoretical  sympathy 
with  the  most  advanced  forms  of  social  revolution.  His  pres- 
ence in  this  room,  and  his  knowledge  of  this  society,  seemed 
to  imply  something  more  than  a  theoretical  adherence. 

Almost  upon  his  heels  came  a  further  arrival,  a  man  in 
thick  boots  and  a  blue  blouse  of  glazed  linen.  This  person, 
who  was  announced  as  M.  Josepli  Ducos,  wore  a  look  of 
simple  brutality  and  stupidity.  His  bullet  head  had  been 
recently  cropped  by  a  prison  barber,  and  his  debased  face 
was  purplish  black  with  the  unshorn  beard  of  a  week. 
He  seemed  to  be  at  perfect  ease  in  the  company  in  Avhich 
he  found  himself,  and  to  be  known  by  all. 

"  We  have  matters  of  moment  to  discuss,"  said  M. 
Cadoudal,  drawing  off  a  black  kid  glove,  and  passing  a 
hand  of  exquisite  whiteness  through  his  silvery  hair. 
"  Are  you  responsible  for  your  young  friend,  Petrovna  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Petrovna,  "  I  am  responsible  for  my  3'Oung 
friend." 

Had  a  secoiul  intervened  between  the  question  and 
the  answer,  Evan  Rliys  himself  would  have  spoken  to  the 
contraiy  effect.  At  least,  he  tliought  afterward  that  he 
would  so  have  spoken.  But  the  chance  was  gone,  and  lie 
was  burning  with  curiosity  to  know  what  plan  of  action 
had  brought  together  so  strangely  assorted  a  body  of 
men.  Petrovna,  exile  and  Nihilist,  and  General  Vincent, 
soldier  of  fortune,  were  easy  enough  to  account  for  ;  but 
Cadoudal  was  the  representative  of  all  the  graces  of  life, 
Dusaulx,  a  well-to-do  dealer  in  pinchbeck  jewehy  in  the 
Palais  Royal,  and  M.  Joseph  Ducos  was  an  evident  jail- 
bird, carrying  the  insignia  of  scamp  and  tl^runkard  boldly 
stamped  upon  him  from  head  to  heel. 


160 

"  I  had  expected  Frost  here,"  said  the  general,  whose 
French,  it  turned  out,  was  of  the  most  elementary 
sort. 

"  Frost,"  returned  Petrovna,  "  is  of  no  great  service  in 
our  counsels.  It  is  enough  for  him  to  know  on  what  we 
have  decided." 


CHAPTER  IV 

M,  Paul  Cadoudal,  who  was  not  only  portly,  but  tall, 
stooped  benevolently  over  Petrovna,  with  a  soft,  white 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  whispered  smilingly  in  his 
ear. 

"Assuredly,"  Petrovna  answered  aloud  ;  and,  turning 
to  the  remainder  of  his  guests,  begged  that  he  might  be 
excused  for  a  mere  instant.  Cadoudal,  smiling  and  nod- 
ding at  each  in  turn  as  he  went  by,  walked  into  the  bed- 
room, whither  Petrovna  followed  him.  He  closed  the 
door,  and,  drawing  his  host  toward  him  by  both  shoulders, 
addressed  him  in  a  soft  whisjser. 

"  Is  our  young  friend,"  he  asked,  with  a  sidelong  nod  in 
the  direction  of  the  outer  room  they  had  just  quitted — 
"  is  our  young  friend  quite  ripe  ?  And  is  he — now,  is 
he," — this  with  a  smiling  air  of  most  amicable  interroga- 
tion,— "is  he  entirely  to  be  trusted  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  chemist,"  said  Petrovna,  answering  obliquely, 
"  and  for  his  years  a  very  good  one.  Poor  Laurent  seems 
to  have  come  to  grief  over  your  formula.  We  want  some- 
body to  try  again,  and  this  I  think  is  our  man." 

"  Exactly,"  said  M.  Cadoudal,  tapping  his  friend  lightly 
on  the  shoulders.  "Exactl}',  my  dear  Petrovna.  But  is 
our  young  friend  entirely  with  us,  and  is  he  entirely  to  be 
trusted  ?  " 

*'  Not  as  yet,"  Petrovna  answered.  "  We  might  enlist 
him  for  particular  work." 

"I  see,"  said  M.  Cadoudal— "I  see."  He  stood  for 
a  while  in  placid  consideration  of  the  problem  which  pre- 
sented itself  to  his  mind,  and  then  with  an  air  of  sudden 
briskness  tr.pped  Petrovna  again  upon  both  shoulders,  and 

11  161 


163 


said  :  "  Leave  him  to  me,  my  friend.  Leave  him  to  me." 
They  were  perfectly  cool  and  collected,  and  might  have 
been  arranging  the  most  ordinar}^  business  in  the  world. 

Petrovna  laid  liis  hand  upon  the  door,  but  glanced  over 
his  shoulder,  as  if  to  ask  if  any  thing  remained  to  be  said. 
Cadoudal  signalled  him  forward  with  a  genial  gesture,  and 
the  pair  returned  to  their  companions.  Petrovna  moved 
about  to  find  seats  for  the  wdiole  party.  They  gathered 
round  the  table,  and  at  Cadoudal's  invitation  Evan  sat 
next  to  him.  The  renowned  and  amiable  scholar  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  ex-piipirs  shoulder,  and  kept  it  there. 

"Has  any  body,"  he  asked,  "  any  trustworthy  news  of 
Laurent?  Do  w^e  know  with  absolute  certaintj'^  that  we 
have  lost  him  ?  " 

Ducos  broke  in  with  an  oath. 

"  I  will  bet  Paris  to  a  toothpick,"  he  said,  "  that  they 
will  never  find  hair  or  hide  of  him.  I  should  have  liked 
a  tooth  or  a  toe-nail  as  a  keepsake,  but  I  shall  never 
get  it." 

*'  May  I  enquire  why  you  are  quite  so  certain  of  that  ?" 
asked  tlie  benevolent  Cadoudal. 

"My  word  ! "  cried  Ducos,  "  I  was  in  his  room  less  than 
ten  minutes  before  he  blew  up.  He  was  already  in  bed 
when  I  called  on  him,  and  the  stuff  was  packed  under  his 
bed  for  safety.  Had  it  been  properly  distributed,  he  had 
enough  to  wreck  half  Paris." 

M.  Dnsaulx,  wath  both  elliows  resting  on  the  table,  ca- 
ressed the  now  empt}'  decanter,  and  muttered  of  reckless- 
ness and  waste. 

"A  year's  work  thrown  away,"  he  said — "brought  to 
nothing  by  mere  criminal  carelessness." 

"  Our  incautious  young  colleague,"  said  Cadoudal,  "has 
paid  his  penalty,  and  we  all  lament  hini.  For  my  own 
part,  I  do  not  know  where  to  look  for  a  man  of  equal 
courage  and  capacity." 


163 


"Your  news,"  said  Petrovna,  addressing  Ducos,  "puts 
an  end  to  all  doubt.  My  young  comrade  and  I,  as  chance 
would  have  it,  were  first  upon  tlie  scene.  We  were  both 
thrown  to  the  ground  by  tlie  explosion.  I  guessed  at  once 
it  was  Laurent." 

Cadoudal  shot  a  meaning  glance  across  the  table  to 
Petrovna. 

"  You,  my  young  friend,"  he  cried,  turning  to  Evan  at 
the  very  instant  at  which  he  gave  the  signal — "you  were 
there  ?    Let  us  know  what  happened  ?  " 

"  Tell  the  story,"  said  Petrovna  ;  "  I  am  a  poor 
historian." 

All  heads  bent  forward,  and  all  eyes  fixed  themselves 
upon  Evan.  The  friendly  Cadoudal  passed  his  hand  to 
the  lad's  further  shoulder,  and  turned  to  him  a  mildly 
attentive  face. 

"There  is  little  enough  to  tell,"  said  Evan.  "The 
citizen  Petrovna  and  I  were  walking  together  in  the 
direction  of  Batignolles.  We  had  just  entered  the  Rue 
de  Pot  d'Etain  when  an  explosion  took  place  at  a  distance 
of  a  hundred  and  fifty  paces.  I  seemed  to  be  caught  in 
a  sudden  wind  before  the  noise  of  the  explosion  reached 
me,  and  I  was  hurled  against  a  door.  Petrovna  was 
thi'own  upon  the  pavement.  There  was  a  great  clash  of 
falling  debris,  and  I  felt  the  ground  tremble.  We 
gathered  ourselves  together,  and  ran  to  the  place.  What 
we  saw  there  you  know,  I  suppose,  as  well  as  I  do." 

The  memory  of  the  spectacle  he  had  seen  still  sickened 
him,  and  Cadoudal  felt  him  shudder  under  his  own  caress- 
ing hand. 

"  Tell  us  what  you  saw  ?  "  said  Dusaulx.  He  spoke  in 
a  grating  voice,  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  empty 
decanter,  which  he  was  now  gently  rolling  round  and 
round  upon  its  base. 

The  old  repulsion  came  back  upon  Evan  strongly,  but 


164 


he  told  the  story,  and  flattered  himself  that  he  told  it  well. 
Petrovna  had  exj^lained  his  own  sang-froid  only  a  few 
hours  before  on  the  ground  that  lie  was  a  veteran.  Evan's 
heai'ers  were  much  older  than  himself,  and  more  than  once 
gratified  vanity  gave  a  fillip  to  his  heart,  and  kept  his 
goi"ge  from  rising. 

"  Tliere  was  a  woman  there,"  he  said,  in  the  course  of 
his  narrative,  "  a  handsome  woman,  who  liad  been  blown 
bodily  from  one  of  the  houses,  and  had  fallen  in  the  street, 
on  the  very  bed  on  which  she  had  been  lying.  Her  feet 
and  her  face  were  bare,  but  a  balk  of  timber  had  fallen 
upon  her  body  and  crushed  it  so  flat  that  the  timbers 
seemed  to  lie  level  with  the  street." 

As  he  narrated  this  ghastly  detail  M.  Dusaulx  ceased 
to  toy  with  the  decanter,  and  not  only  raised  those  veiling 
eyelids  of  his,  but  looked  the  speaker  full  in  the  face. 

Evan  encountered  his  glance  with  a  kind  of  horror.  The 
man's  upper  lip  was  drawn  away  from  a  set  of  broken  and 
discolored  teeth,  and  he  was  gnawing  at  his  finger-nails. 
His  eyes  shone  with  a  ferocious  joy.  Evan  stopped  dead, 
and  M.  Dusaulx's  furtive  eyes  went  back  to  the  pattern  of 
the  table-cloth. 

"  These  scenes  of  human  misery,"  said  Cadoudal,  "  are 
very  appalling.  I  protest  that  our  young  friend's  graphic 
narration  has  afilicted  me  with  a  positive  sense  of  sickness. 
A  faint  sickness,"  he  said,  with  one  white  hand  upon  his 
white  shirt-front.  He  looked  about  him  with  a  slightly 
distorted  face,  as  if  in  imagination  he  saw  the  scene 
described. 

"It  is  not  eas3%"  said  the  soldier  of  fortune,  "  to  make 
war  with  rose-water.  There  is  no  making  of  omelettes 
without  breaking  of  eggs."  He  spoke  the  first  phrase 
haltingly,  but  he  knew  the  French  of  the  proverb,  and 
rattled  it  off  quite  glibly. 

"  Ah,  my  friend,"  said   Cadoudal,  "  but   we  regret  an 


165 


accident  of  this  nature.  We  make  war,  but  we  do  not 
willingly  turn  our  fire  upon  our  friends.  It  is  for  the  wel- 
fare of  these  unhappy  wretches  that  we  struggle.  It  is  in 
their  interest  that  we  brave  all  dangers." 

At  this  moment  a  knock  sounded  at  the  door — a  knock 
so  loud  and  imperative  that  M.  Cadoudal  started  to  his 
feet  with  trembling  hands,  and  a  face  as  white  as  chalk. 
lie  had  risen  so  suddenly  that  his  portly  figure  gave  a 
shock  to  the  table,  which  communicated  itself  to  his  ojipo- 
site  neighbors. 

"  Vieux  lache  !  "  Ducos  muttered,  rubbing  at  his  elbow, 
while  Dusaulx  caught  the  falling  decanter. 

"  No,  my  friend,"  Cadoudal  retorted  ;  "I  am  cursed  with 
a  nervous  temperament,  but  I  am  no  coward,  as  you  may 
perhaps  find." 

He  steadied  himself  by  an  effort,  and  it  was  he  who 
opened  the  door. 

"  Our  friend  Frost,"  he  said,  and  the  friend  Frost  came 
in,  smoothing  a  chin  beard  with  one  hand,  and  carrying  a 
glossy  hat  and  a  pair  of  gloves  in  the  other.  The  new- 
comer shook  hands  all  round  Avith  profound  gravity. 

"  Mr.  Petrovna,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Frost,  "  our  ambitious 
young  friend  M.  Laurent  has  at  length  succeeded  in  get- 
ting himself  talked  about,  but  I  am  afraid  he  has  exhausted 
his  chances  of  future  usefulness." 

"  Our  distinguished  young  friend  Mr.  Evan  Rhys," 
said  Cadoudal,  in  vei-y  labored  English,  "  relates  to  us  the 
calamity  of  this  morning,  of  which  he  was  an  eyewitness." 

"  Mr.  Evan  Rhys,  sir,"  said  the  late  comer,  bowing  with 
an  overstudied  air,  which  miglit  have  been  meant  either 
for  burlesque  or  reality,  "  I  am  proud  to  meet  you.  You, 
sir,  I  believe,  are  the  latest  martyr  on  the  roll  of  freedom," 

In  spite  of  himself  Evan  looked  for  a  sign  of  mockery 
in  Frost's  face.  He  might  almost  as  well  have  looked  for 
expression  in  a  blank  wall. 


166 


"I  think  it  riglit,"  said  Cadoudal,  "to  inform  our  dis- 
tinguished young  friend  of  the  purpose  of  our  gathering." 

M.  Ducos,  in  an  argot  thickly  interspersed  with  oaths, 
expressed  his  personal  determination  that  no  confidence 
whatever  should  be  reposed  in  the  stranger  until  he  was 
thoroughly  guaranteed.  He  declared  with  emphasis  that 
he  was  not  prepared  to  see  his  own  head  made  into  a  saw- 
dust pie  for  any  body's  gratification, 

"  My  friend,"  said  Petrovna,  "  we  are  engaged  upon 
particular  business,  and  I  must  beg  that  3'ou  will  not  inter- 
rupt us." 

"  Oh  !  "  Ducos  grumbled.  "If  the  business  is  particular, 
that  alters  the  question.     It  is  no  affair  of  mine." 

"  Let  us  get  to  business,"  said  Cadoudal.  "  It  is  ex- 
tremely important  that  we  should  secure  a  successor  to 
our  poor,  dear  friend  Laurent,  Avho  is  lost  to  us  so  far  as 
this  world  is  concerned.  For  my  own  part,  I  regard  the 
presence  of  our  distinguished  young  friend  here  this  morn- 
ing as  a  circumstance  entireh"  providential." 

"I  object,"  said  M.  Ducos,  speaking  with  his  inevitable 
garniture  of  oaths  and  curses,  "  to  the  introduction  of  con- 
troversial matter."  Xobody,  he  went  on  to  say,  had  a 
right  in  a  mixed  societ}^  to  talk  about  Providence.  For 
his  own  part,  he  felt  that  such  an  allusion  was  an  insult  to 
his  intelligence. 

"  We  Avill  sa}',"  said  Petrovna,  "  that  the  circumstance 
is  fortunate." 

"And  thus,"  said  Cadoudal,  "find  refuge  from  the 
modern  theologies  in  the  arms  of  a  heathen  goddess."  He 
looked  about  him  with  a  bland  smile,  which  did  not  fade 
even  when  he  saw  that  nobody  understood  him.  "  I  will 
say,  for  the  satisfaction  of  our  friend  Ducos,  that  I  am 
glad  mj'  young  friend  Evan  "Rhys  is  here.  When  I  read 
that  proclamation  of  freedom  for  the  utterance  of  which 
he  suffered,  I  trembled  with  delight.     I  proclaimed  aloud 


167 


to  myself  in  the  solitude  of  my  study  that  the  good  seed 
had  not  been  sown  in  vain." 

The  unappeasable  Ducos  asked  why  all  this  fuss  was 
being  made  about  tlie  new-comer.  Nobody  made  a  fuss 
about  him,  who  had  served  the  cause  faithfully  for  years. 

"Pardon,  my  good  Ducos,"  said  Cadoudal,  when  the 
good  Ducos  had  cursed  himself  to  a  purple  stand-still,  and 
stood  banging  at  the  table  with  a  throttled  execration  half- 
way between  lungs  and  teeth — "  pardon  me,  my  good 
Ducos,  we  all  value  your  services,  and  recognize  your 
enthusiasm,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not 
recognize  the  possibilities  of  the  service  which  our  young 
friend  can  render  us.  You  j'ourself  in  jonr  calmer 
moments  will  confess  that  those  services  may  be  in- 
valuable." 

Dusaulx  plucked  Ducos  by  the  skirt  of  his  blouse,  and 
whispered  in  his  ear.  The  blackguard  listened  sulkily  at 
first,  but  by  and  by  gave  an  assenting  grin,  and  thence- 
forth sat  silent. 

There  were  meat  and  wine  and  hone}'-  in  all  this  for  the 
delight  of  Evan  Rhys's  vanity  ;  but  the  memory  of  the 
morning  was  still  strong  upon  him.  All  the  brave  words 
he  had  written,  and  all  the  swelling  thoughts  of  indigna- 
tion he  had  experienced,  seemed  to  him  for  the  time  so 
much  cold  cloud  and  vapor.  He  tried  to  tell  himself  that 
philosophically  he  was  as  much  convinced  as  ever  of  the 
justice  of  his  opinions,  but  the  shrieks  of  wounded  and 
terrified  women,  the  agonized  cryings  of  mangled  men,  and 
the  wail  of  children  Avere  still  in  his  ears.  He  saw  again 
one  horrible  human  joint,  a  dismembered  limb,  bleeding 
and  ghastly,  projecting  from  a  heap  of  broken  masonry 
almost  at  his  feet,  and  a  sense  of  physical  sickness  oppressed 
him.  He  conquered  this,  and  rose  to  his  feet  white  and 
staring. 

"  Citizens,"  he  said,  "  I  deniand  to  be  allowed  a  word. 


168 


I  am  profoundly  flattered  by  the  confidence  you  place  in 
me,  but  I  cannot  accept  the  post  you  seem  inclined  to 
offer." 

Cadoudal  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  M}^  dear  young  friend,  believe  me,  we  shall  ask  noth- 
ing of  you  which  will  revolt  your  sensibilities.  \Yith  the 
permission  of  our  friend  Frost  I  will  detail  the  scheme 
which  he  has  laid  before  us,  and,  having  done  so,  I  will  ask 
you  if  your  objection  still  exists." 

Friend  Frost  looked  puzzled  for  an  instant  only.  "When 
Evan  turned  to  look  at  him,  he  had  screwed  from  his  face 
the  faintest  sign  of  expression,  and  sat  there,  a  little  with- 
drawn from  the  table,  blank  of  meaning,  nursing  big 
polished  silk  hat  in  both  hands  between  his  knees. 

"  The  American  society,"  continued  Cadoudal,  "  which 
is  so  ably  represented  by  our  friend  Frost,  reports  to  us  the 
existence  in  the  United  States  of  a  mass  of  human  misery 
and  despair  the  like  of  which  we  cannot  show  even  here  in 
Paris.  It  reports,  further,  the  existence  of  regiments  of 
the  wealthy.  The  poorest  man,  or  shall  I  say  the  least 
swollen  ?  of  these  plutocrats  might  buy  up  two  or  three  of 
the  average  rich  men  of  our  own  country.  America  is  the 
land  of  monstrosities,  but  it  is  noAvhere  so  monstrous  as  in 
its  contrasts  of  wealth  and  poverty." 

"  Are  we  in  for  a  sermon,  daddy  Cadoudal  ? "  Ducos 
asked,  with  a  grin. 

"  It  is  proposed,"  Cadoudal  flowed  on,  with  a  passing 
smile  for  the  interruption — "  it  is  proposed  to  offer  these 
plutocrats  a  lesson  and  a  warning.  Our  distinguished 
young  friend  must  not  look  u])on  us  as  a  pitiless  gang  of 
wretches  who  are  eager  to  shed  blood.  AVe  do  not  for  the 
present  propose  to  castigate  the  vile  society  we  see  about 
us.  We  intend  nothing  more  than  a  warning.  If  the 
warning  should  not  be  accepted,  we  may  be  moved  to 
sterner  measures." 


169 


"  There  is  no  making  of  omelettes  without  breaking  of 
eggs,"  said  General  Vincent.  He  had  practised  the  phrase 
already,  but  had  not  been  absolutely  pleased  with  his  own 
accent.  He  succeeded  so  well  this  time  that  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  folded  his  arms  in  a  smiling  pride. 

"  Our  friend  Frost's  suggestion,"  Cadoudal  continued, 
"  strikes  me,  strikes  all  of  us,  as  being  at  once  practical 
and  humane.  Our  poor  Laurent  was  engaged  in  the  charg- 
ing of  bombs,  and  had  he  been  discovered  by  the  police, 
there  is  no  doubt  that  he  would  have  been  confounded  in 
the  common  mind  with  those  vulgar  criminals  whose  ap2:)ar- 
ent  association  with  us  degrades  our  reputation." 

Evan  had  half  turned  his  chair,  and  gave  eyes  and  ears 
unreservedly  to  his  old  master  in  rhetoric.  Ducos  took 
advantage  of  this  circumstance  to  nudge  Dusaulx,  his 
neighbor, *in  the  ribs,  and  Dusaulx  smiled  back  at  him  with 
ugly  mirth. 

"  The  purpose,"  pursued  Cadoudal,  "  for  which  our 
lamented  Laurent  was  engaged  in  the  occupation  of  Avhich 
I  have  spoken  was  simply  this  :  It  was  intended,  when  the 
instruments  Avere  ready,  to  intrust  them  to  a  number  of 
safe  hands,  and  to  have  them  exploded  at  a  safe  hour,  say 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  nobody  was  likely  to  be 
injured,  in  the  hall  of  the  American  plutocrats.  It  was 
intended  to  select  two  or  three  or  more  in  every  con- 
siderable cit}^,  and  it  was  decided  that  at  the  hour  at  which 
the  demonstration  was  made  a  manifesto  should  be  issued 
by  the  post  to  this  effect  :  '  To  the  capitalists  of  tlie 
United  States  :  To-day's  demonstration  is  intended  as  a 
warning.  The  society  which  proffers  the  warning  is 
resolved  at  all  costs  to  put  an  end  to  the  shameful 
inequalities  in  the  distribution  of  wealth  which  disgrace 
society,  and  are  provocative  of  misery  and  crime.  The 
society  does  not  propose  to  itself  at  once  to  create  a  dead 
level  of  equality.     Its  object,  however,  is  simple  and  direct. 


no 


It  will  for  tlie  moment  permit  the  retention  in  the  hands  of 
any  inordinately  Avealthy  man  a  sum  of  one  million  francs, 
but  it  insists  inexorabl}^  that  no  larger  sum  than  that  should 
be  retained  by  an}^  individual,  and  that  all  and  any  over- 
plus shall  be  surrendered  to  the  state  for  the  relief  of  the 
poor  and  needy,  the  sick  and  aged,  the  maimed  and  halt 
and  blind,  and  them  that  have  no  helper.' " 

"  Mr.  Cadoudal,"  said  Frost,  "  that  recommends  itself  to 
my  mind  as  a  real  gaudy  scheme.  It  is  practical,  it  is 
humane,  it  is  reasonable." 

Frost  had  never  heard  of  the  scheme  before,  but  he 
fathered  it  with  a  perfect  gravity. 

"If  no  more  than  that  were  meant "  said  Evan. 

"  That,"  said  Petrovna,  "  is  our  scheme." 

"  That,"  echoed  Dusaulx  and  Ducos  together,  "  is  our 
scheme." 

"  I  shall  rest  satisfied,"  said  General  Vincent,  "  with  no 
such  absurd  lialf  measures."  If  he  had  expressed  himself 
in  Englisli,  he  might  possibly  have  made  some  impression, 
but,  as  it  haj^pened,  his  halting  French  was  intelligible 
only  to  Petrovna,  who  brought  down  a  grinding  heel  upon 
the  warrior's  toe,  and  thus  cut  short  his  protest. 

"Give  Petrovna  and  myself  a  moment  alone  with  our 
young  friend,"  said  Cadoudal,  rising  and  opening  the  bed- 
room door. 

Petrovna  rose  also,  and  between  them  Evan  marched 
into  the  bedroom.  The  door  closed  behind  the  retreating 
figures,  and  Mr.  Frost,  who  had  been  attentiveh'  studying 
the  maker's  name  in  his  hat,  looked  up,  and,  permitting  his 
features  to  relax  into  a  weary  smile,  winked  slowly  at  the 
general,  who  was  nursing  a  patent  leather  foot  in  both 
hands,  and  feeling  it  gingerly. 

"  Do  you  suppose,  sir,"  said  the  general,  "that  I  came 
here  to  listen  to  this  infernal  milk-and-water  nonsense  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"   said   Frost.     "  Blood   and   brandy  is  your 


171 


mixture,  general,  and  j^ou  like  a  stick  of  dj'namite  to  stir 
it  with.     But  can't  you  see  that  we  must  have  a  chemist 

somehow  to   manipulate   that  d d   stuff  ?     1  don't   lay 

out  to  speak  mucli  French,  and,  as  a  j^oint  of  fact,  I  can't 
express  my  notions  in  tlie  language  much  better  than  you 
can  ;  but  I  can  take  in  what  I  hear,  and  I  do  assure  you, 
general,  that  I  have  been  amused.  Old  Cadoudal  is  a  real 
glory,  and  I  reckon,  after  all,  it  doesn't  matter  much 
what  that  young  man  believes  so  long  as  3'ou  get  your 
material." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  general,  and  said  no  more. 

Messrs.  Ducos  and  Dusaulx  had  risen  from  the  table,  and 
had  drifted  together  into  a  corner  of  the  room.  They  were 
both  convulsed  with  silent  laughter,  and  each  stood,  hands 
on  knees,  with  head  projected,  and  chin  thrown  upward, 
purple  and  gaping  with  restrained  mirth. 

"  That  is  our  plan,  my  friend,"  said  Ducos,  when  he  had 
breath  to  speak. 

"  Our  friend  Cadoudal,"  responded  Dusaulx,  "  is  a  master 
in  rhetoric." 

Then  there  fell  a  silence,  and  all  four  sat  round  the 
table,  awaiting  the  result  of  the  conference  in  the  bedroom. 
The  general  produced  a  cigarette-case  and  solemnly 
handed  it  round.  They  all  began  to  smoke,  and  in  about 
five  minutes'  time  the  hum  of  voices  in  the  adjoining  apart- 
ment ceased.  The  noise  of  the  scraping  of  chairs  on  the 
uncarpeted  floor  announced  the  breaking  up  of  the  con- 
ference.  Then  the  door  opened,  and  Evan  Rhys  appeared, 
pushed  forward  gently  by  the  applausive  hand  of  Cad- 
oudal, who  patted  him  again  and  again  on  the  shoulder. 
Evan  was  pale,  but  his  lips  were  set,  and  his  03'es  shone 
with  an  unusual  lustre.  Petrovna  brought  up  the  rear, 
rubbing  his  hands  and  smiling. 

"  The  post  of  danger,"  said  Cadoudal,  "  is  the  post  of 
honor.     Our  young  friend  has  accepted  it." 


CHAPTER    V 

Evan  was  back  in  his  own  meagre  lodging,  which  was 
no  better  equipped  than  of  old.  He  sat  alone  with  rounded 
shoulders  over  a  crackling  wood  fire,  while  the  spring  rain 
lashed  at  tlie  window,  and  the  late  March  wind  howled  in 
the  cliimney.  He  Avas  sunk  deep  in  thought  when,  without 
warning,  Petrovna  opened  the  door  and  entered,  shining 
with  rain  from  head  to  heel.  He  carried  in  one  hand  a 
cardboard  box,  Avhich  he  placed  with  extreme  delicacy  on 
the  unclothed  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "is  the  sample  I  promised  you.  It  is 
very  small  in  quantity,  but  there  is  enough  of  it  to  enable 
you  to  compare  Laurent's  results  with  your  own." 

Evan  rose  from  his  seat  in  rather  a  listless  fashion,  and 
Petrovna  saw  that  he  held  a  letter  in  one  hand.  His  keen 
eye  even  detected  the  crest  of  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel 
stamped  in  raised  crimson  and  gold  on  the  thick  note- 
paper. 

"  Do  we  keep  up  our  aristocratic  correspondence  still  ?  " 
he  asked,  with  half  a  sneer. 

"You  ma,j  read  it  if  you  like,"  said  Evan  ;  and,  tossing 
the  letter  on  to  the  table,  he  resumed  his  seat,  half  turning 
his  back  upon  his  visitor.  Petrovna,  stretching  out  one 
hand  to  take  up  the  folded  sheet,  eyed  him  curiously  for  a 
full  minute,  then,  with  an  enigmatical  nod  of  the  head,  took 
up  the  letter  and  read  it  tlioughtfully,  smiling  to  himself 
from  time  to  time.     It  ran  thus  : 

"  My  Dear  Evan  :  I  have  given  instructions  to  Quahar 
to  call  upon  you  at  three  o'clock  to-morrow,  Thursdaj*,  after- 
noon, and  I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will  be  at  home  to 


173 


receive  him.  He  will  carry  witli  l)im  certain  solid  reasons 
for  the  arguments  I  have  authorized  him  to  offer,  and  you 
will  do  well  to  accept  them.  It  is  beyond  doubt  that  you 
are  a  very  clever  young  man,  but  it  is  also  beyond  doubt 
that,  like  other  very  clever  young  men  who  have  lived 
before  you,  you  have  to  pass  through  a  stage  of  folly  and 
ferment.  I  have  always  liked  you,  and,  in  spite  of  your 
recent  absurdities, — and  perhaps,  to  be  quite  frank,  in  psLVt 
because  of  them, — I  like  you  still.  A  milksop  is  my  horror, 
and  I  like  a  young  fellow  who  has  a  spice  of  the  devil  in 
him,  and  can  make  a  fool  of  himself  on  good  occasion. 
But,  my  dear  Evan,  to  be  quite  serious  with  j'ou,  it  is  time 
you  took  counsel  with  yourself.  Let  Folly  attend  her  own 
funeral,  and  do  you  listen  to  experience.  If  you  choose  to 
return  to  j^our  old  footing  with  me,  you  shall  be  welcome. 
The  past  month  should  have  taught  you  something,  and  I 
hope  with  all  my  heart  you  have  had  the  good  sense  to 
study  its  lessons." 

This  good-hearted  and  friendly  epistle  bore  the  duke's 
usual  slapdash,  happy-go-lucky  signature.  Petrovna  turned 
the  letter  over  twice  or  thrice  before  he  sjDoke,  looking 
from  it  to  its  receiver. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "have  you  answered  this  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Evan,  "  I  have  not  answered  it." 

His  voice  and  bearing  were  alike  sullen,  and  seemed  to 
proclaim  some  inward  disturbance. 

"  The  man  mentioned  here  will  call  to-day,"  said 
Petrovna.  "  I  presume  you  mean  to  have  your  answer 
ready  ?  " 

"I  suppose  so,"  answered  Evan,  as  sulkily  as  before. 

Petrovna  approached  him,  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"  My  young  friend "  he  began. 

"  Young  friend  !  "    echoed    Evan,   rising   savagely,  and 


174 


flinging  away  the  hand.  "  Young  friend  !  Old  enemy. 
I  am  sick  of  your  young  friend.  If  we  talk  at  all,  let  us 
talk  as  man  to  man.     Drop  these  airs  of  patronage." 

Petrovna  stared  for  a  minute  with  a  readable  look  of 
anger  in  his  glance,  but  his  young  friend,  raging  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room  and  back  again,  missed  this.  The 
elder  man  forced  a  laugh,  which  was  meant  to  express  a 
humorous  allowance. 

"  I  beg  3'our  pardon,  my  dear  Rhys,"  he  said  ;  "  I  had 
no  notion  of  offending  or  of  patronizing  you.  I  am  old 
enough  to  be  your  father,  that  is  all.  Believe  me,  I  grudge 
you  your  youth  much  more  than  you  are  likely  to  envy  me 
my  years.     Come,  come,  shake  hands." 

Evan  still  flinging  up  and  down  the  room  with  hasty  and 
disordered  footsteps,  and  taking  no  notice  of  the  prof- 
fered hand,  Petrovna  sat  down  and  held  liis  peace  for  a 
little  while.  When  he  next  spoke,  it  was  in  a  changed 
voice. 

"Do  you  remember, Evan,"  he  began, %vith  a  little  tremu- 
lous note  in  his  speech,  Avhich  at  once  arrested  the  other's 
attention — "do  you  remember  Koollala?  Do  j'ou  remem- 
ber the  day  Avhen  I  was  lost  in  the  forest  ?  But  for  j^ou  I 
should  have  perished  miserably.  It  was  no  virtue  in  you 
to  be  there  by  accident,  and  you  did  no  more  for  me  than 
any  body  would  have  done  for  any  body,  and  yet  I  have 
not  forgotten,  and  shall  never  forget." 

Evan  did  not  refuse  the  outstretched  hand  this  time. 
On  the  contrary,  he  seized  it  eagerly,  gripped  it  with 
warmth,  and  turned  aM'ay  to  hide  a  flash  of  moisture  in  his 
e^'es.  Petrovna  made  a  derisive  mouth  behind  him,  and 
quoted  in  a  regretful  voice  a  proverb  of  his  own  people  : 
"  If  not  for  the  whip,  then  for  honey."  He  spoke  in  his 
native  tongue,  and  Evan  turned  round  with  an  involuntary 
enquiry. 

"  What  ?  " 


175 


"  A  verse  of  an  old  song,"  said  Pctrovna,  with  a  tone  of 
tender  melancholy,  "  nothing  more." 

Evan  resumed  his  seat,  but  before  he  did  so  he  took  up 
the  letter,  glanced  at  it  in  an  irresolute  sort  of  way,  and 
dropped  it  back  upon  the  table.  The  action  looked  signifi- 
cant, for  the  sheet  of  paper  slid  slowly  from  between 
finger  and  thumb,  as  if  he  parted  with  it  reluctantly. 

"  Do  you  care  for  my  advice  on  this  matter  ?  "  asked 
Petrovna,  flirting  the  edge  of  the  thick  notepaper  with 
his  fore-finger.  "  It  is  an  old  soldier's  motto — '  Quarter 
yourself  upon  the  enemy.'  Apart  from  that  it  will  be  use- 
ful to  have  it  known  that  you  have  abandoned  the  foolish 
and  violent  ideas  for  which  you  have  suffered,  and  that 
you  are  once  again  under  the  protection  of  so  conservative 
a  personage  as  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel." 

"I  can't  do  that,"  said  Evan.  "  Old  Frenchy  has  been 
very  good  to  me.  You  remember  how  he  used  to  feed  his 
pigs  at  KooUala  ?  I've  been  thinking,  Petrovna.  The  sys- 
tem's wrong, — the  system's  wickedly  and  insanely  wrong, — 
but  there  are  good  fellows  even  among  the  aristocrats,  and 
Marais  Castel  is  one  of  them.  I  can't  take  his  bread  and 
lie  to  him  the  while.  I  did  it  once,  and  I  lived  to  be 
ashamed  of  it." 

"  It  would  be  useful,"  said  Petrovna,  in  a  half-resigned 
voice.  *'  Under  such  auspices  there  would  be  no  chance 
of  suspicion.  And,  don't  you  see,  my  dear  Rhys,"  he  went 
on,  as  if  warming  to  his  theme — "  don't  you  see  that  you 
are  at  present  a  suspect,  that  you  are  at  any  moment  liable 
to  a  domiciliary  visit  from  the  police,  that  tlie  duke's 
protection  would  free  you  from  any  such  risk  at  once, 
that  you  might  move  again  in  the  most  respectable  societ}^ 
and  do  your  work  at  home  in  tenfold  security  ?  I  do  not 
urge  it  against  your  conscience,  but  think  it  over,  I  beg  of 
you,  my  dear  fellow — think  it  over." 

"  I  have  thought,"  said  Evan,  "  until  my  head  aches,  and 


176 


my  heart  is  sick.  If  it  were  any  one  else,  I  might  bring 
myself  to  do  it.  I  will  live  in  one  camp  or  the  other,  and 
I  will  wear  the  clothes  of  the  regiment  I  belong  to.  I  am 
not  ashamed  of  my  uniform,  or  afraid  of  the  chances  of 
battle." 

"  Ah,  well,"  sighed  Petrovna,  this  time  with  an  expres- 
sion of  complete  siirrender,  "  it  is  a  little  bit  of  a  pity 
from  the  point  of  view  of  an  old  campaigner  like  myself  ; 
but  youth  will  have  its  impulses  of  generosity  and  honor, 
and,  in  short,  ray  dear  boy,  I  could  wish  we  were  all  like 
you.     And  now  let  us  get  to  business." 

He  unbuttoned  his  water-proof  overcoat,  streaming  from 
which  a  trail  of  wet  had  marked  his  progress  about  the 
room,  and,  diving  into  an  inner  pocket,  produced  from  it  a 
number  of  small  packages,  which  he  laid  out  upon  the  table. 

"  You  will  know  more  about  this  matter  than  I,"  he 
said,  "  though  I  also  have  studied  a  little  chemistry  in  my 
day.  Tlie  ingredients,  as  you  see,  are  separately  harmless. 
Cadoudal  has,  I  suppose,  already  supplied  you  with  the 
formula."  Evan  nodded  gloomily.  "  This," — lajnng  a 
delicate  finger  on  the  cardboard  box, — "  is  the  final  result 
of  poor  Laurent's  experiments.  I  shall  leave  all  these  in 
your  charge,  and  as  f or  anj^  implements  j^ou  may  want,  you 
must  procure  them  for  yourself.  You  can  relj^  upon  me 
for  funds,  and,  though  I  shall  ask  you  not  to  be  extravagant, 
I  shall  allow  you  a  complete  discretion." 

While  he  spoke,  he  drew  a  jDenknife  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  with  great  care  cut  the  string  which  bound 
the  cardboard  box.  Next  he  removed  the  lid,  and  revealed 
a  packing  of  cotton-wool.  He  stripped  this  away  with 
extreme  delicac}'^  and  caution,  and  finally  brought  to  sight 
a  test-tube,  some  five  inches  in  length,  and  of  the  width  of 
a  man's  little  finger.  It  was  corked  with  a  plug  of  cotton- 
wool, and  about  three  parts  filled  with  a  fine,  greenish  gray 
powder. 


177 


"  Laurent  told  me,"  said  Petrovna,  holding  out  the  box 
for  his  companion's  inspection,  "  that  he  had  established 
different  degrees  of  sensitiveness  according  to  temperature. 
It  is  quite  safe  in  a  moderately  cool  place  unless  disturbed. 
I  fancy,"  he  added  contemplatively,  "  that  poor  Laurent 
met  his  end  by  a  disaster  happening  to  some  unguarded 
trifle  such  as  this.  A  mouse  might  roll  this  from  a  shelf, 
and  the  shock  of  its  explosion  would  awake  any  thing  else 
that  might  lie  in  the  same  room  with  it." 

Evan  packed  up  the  diabolical  little  article  in  its  cotton- 
wool, restored  the  cardboard  cover  to  its  place,  and  stowed 
the  box  away  in  the  safest  spot  he  could  think  of.  He 
locked  away  also  the  other  packages  Petrovna  had  brought 
him.  These  contained  the  separate  materials  for  the 
manufacture  to  which  he  had  j^ledged  himself,  and  were, 
in  their  separate  condition,  purely  harmless.  Petrovna 
shook  hands  with  him,  with  a  great  show  of  friendly 
warmth,  before  leaving,  and  Evan  once  more  sat  down  by 
the  fireside  to  think  his  own  thoughts,  and  to  dream  his 
own  dreams.  Mr.  Quahar  was  about  to  visit  him,  and  it 
was  not  unnatural  that  Mr.  Quahar  should  find  a  way  into 
his  reveries.  From  Mr.  Quahar  himself  to  Mr.  Quahar's 
daughter,  Effie,  was  a  step  neither  long  nor  diflicult.  At 
any  rate,  it  was  taken  in  Evan  Rhys's  faiic}^,  and  by  and 
by  indeed  his  whole  thoughts  were  centred  in  the  girl. 

When  the  Comte  de  Montmeillard  left  Koollala,  he  left 
behind  him  a  humorous  Scottish  acquaintance  who  answered 
to  the  name  of  Sandy  Quahar.  This  same  man  had  lent 
Evan  books  to  satisfy  the  early  craving  of  his  intelligence 
for  knowledge.  Quahar  hit  upon  an  idea  for  a  speculation 
in  which  he  thought  he  saw  a  great  fortune,  and  with  a 
rather  vague  hope  of  success  he  wrote  to  the  Due  de  Marais 
Castel,  setting  forth  his  plans,  and  offering  to  become  his 
Excellency's  agent  in  the  matter.  The  genial  nobleman 
had  but  newly  come  in  for  his  vast  fortune,  and  was  ready 
J3 


178 


to  be  generous  to  any  body.  He  sent  Sand}^  Quahai*  the 
money  asked  for,  and,  never  expecting  to  hear  of  it  again, 
appointed  Quahar  to  the  solicited  agency  in  a  spirit  of 
solemn  banter.  The  Scot,  however,  accepted  the  position 
in  perfect  good  faith,  and  his  Excellency  was  surprised  to 
discover  that  he  possessed  a  paying  property  in  Australia, 
a  property  which  increased  so  rapidly  year  by  year  that  at 
last  the  very  agent  grew  wealth}^  on  his  percentage.  Then 
Sandy  Quahar  burned  to  see  home  again,  and  longed  to 
settle  his  bones  finally  in  the  old  kirkyard  in  which  his 
fathers  lay.  Coming  home  he  must  needs  jjay  his  respects 
to  his  patron  and  emplojer.  He  was  received  with  genuine 
respect  and  liking,  for  the  duke  had  not  met  so  many 
honest  men  in  his  time  that  he  could  afford  to  allow  such 
a  human  curiosity  as  Quahar  to  go  by  him  unregarded. 
Now,  for  two  or  three  years  past, — the  Australian  property 
had  been  prosperously  sold, — Quahar  had  lived  in  Paris, 
acting  as  a  sort  of  factotum  to  his  noble  friend  and 
patron. 

Evan  remembered  little  EfEe  as  a  barelegged  and  bare- 
footed child,  and  Effie  remembered  Evan  well  enough  as  a 
begrimed  and  freckled  urchin.  Tliey  were  both  in  a  way 
under  the  protection  of  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel,  and  they 
were  thrown  a  good  deal  together.  That  the  lad  was  a 
hare-brained  enthusiast  in  politics  was  no  bar  to  his  falling 
passionately  in  love.  Whatever  Evan  Rhjs  did,  he  did 
Avith  his  whole  heart  and  soul. 

He  sat  thinking  and  thinking  until  the  crackling  logs 
burned  to  a  solid  core  of  heat,  and  still  sat  thinking  till  the 
glow  scarcely  shone  through  gray  ashes.  Ever3'^  man  is 
real  to  himself,  and  the  maddest  of  madmen  thinks  his  own 
theories  sane.  Evan  was  profoundly  convinced  of  the  truth 
of  his  own  peculiar  tenets,  but  he  knew  that  to  adhere  to 
them  was  to  set  up  an  impassable  barrier  between  the  girl 
and  himself. 


179 


It  seems  rather  a  forlorn  hope  to  attempt  to  enlist  sym- 
pathy for  the  sentimental  woes  of  a  young  gentleman  who 
is  resolved  on  the  reformation  of  the  world  by  the  explo- 
sion of  bombshells.  And  yet,  if  the  young  man  be  abso- 
lutely convinced  that  duty  calls  him  in  that  curious  direc- 
tion, and  if  in  order  to  follow  the  call  of  duty  he 
surrenders  all  that  makes  life  dear  and  pleasant,  he  is  at 
least  entitled  to  a  wondering  pity.  The  insane  wretch  who 
gives  battle  to  the  dragons  of  delirium  meets  enemies  as 
real  as  were  encountered  by  the  valorous  apostle  who, 
after  the  manner  of  men,  fought  with  beasts  at  Ephesus. 
We  can't  hold  them  in  equal  sympathy,  we  can't  admire 
blind  Fury  slinging  flame,  as  we  admire  calm  courage. 
But  the  poor  deluded  fool  is,  after  all,  a  man,  and  in  his 
own  twisted  and  darkened  mind  is  willing  to  suffer  to 
insure  the  approval  of  his  own  conscience. 

To  the  mind  of  this  particular  young  fanatic  there  was 
a  charm  in  the  scheme  that  had  been  presented  to  him  by 
M.  Cadoudal,  and  that  charm  lay  in  its  complete  moder- 
ation. The  longer  he  looked  at  it  the  more  admirable 
it  seemed.  Just  to  frighten  the  wicked  rich  and  the 
unspeakable  aristocrat  without  effusion  of  blood,  and  to 
bring  about  an  immediate  millennium  of  equality  by  the 
destruction  of  an  uncertain  quantity  of  hall  furniture, 
seemed  beautifully  feasible.  He  was  rising  to  a  sense  of 
enthusiasm  about  the  whole  idiotic  business  when  the 
hour  of  three  soutided  from  the  clock  of  a  neighboring 
church,  and,  punctual  to  a  second,  Mr.  Quahar  appeared 
upon  the  scene.  He  was  once  more  accompanied  by  his 
daughter,  and  at  the  sight  of  her  Evan  turned  pale,  and 
began  to  tremble. 

The  Scotchman's  humorous  and  sagacious  face  wore  an 
odd  look  of  blended  amusement  and  pity  as  he  shook  Evan 
by  the  hand. 

"I'm   doubting,    my   lad,"  he    said,  "that   you're    not 


180 


greatly  given  to  the  reading  of  Holy  Writ,  but  maybe 
you'll  mind  the  parable  of  the  prodigal  son." 

"  Perfectly  well,  sir,"  Evan  answered. 

"  You've  been  playing  the  part  with  consaderable  vagor 
an'  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel,  who's  been  just  a  father  to 
ye,  is  fulfill  in'  the  other  side  o'  the  stor3\  He's  wellin' 
to  kell  the  fatted  calf  for  ye  ef  ye'll  only  come  home 
again," 

"I  have  bad  a  letter  from  him,"  Evan  said  in  answer. 
"He  told  me  that  you  Avould  be  here  at  this  time,  and 
asked  me  to  be  at  home  to  meet  you." 

"  Well,  lad,"  said  Quahar,  "  ye've  had  a  wee  bit  experi- 
ence, and  experience,  they  saj',  is  the  mother  of  wesdora. 
I'm  not  expectin'  that  she's  borne  ye  a  vary  large  family  so 
far,  but  haven't  ye  just  a  leetle  bit  of  a  bantlin'  to  show 
us?" 

"  If  you  mean  to  ask  me,"  Evan  retorted  coldly, 
"  whether  my  recent  experience  has  changed  m}'^  opinions, 
I  can  only  answer  '  No.'  " 

"  Upon  my  worrd,"  cried  Quahar,  "  ye're  about  the  most 
obstinate  young  idiot " 

Effie's  restraining  hand  touched  his  coat-sleeve  light  as  a 
snow-flake. 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  he  cried,  "  it's  no  use  talkin'." 
Then,  with  a  sudden  determination  to  fulfil  his  duty  in 
spite  of  irritations,  he  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  drew 
from  it  a  note  for  a  thousand  francs,  which  he  laid  upon 
the  table.  "  That,"  he  said,  "  is  the  offered  month's  allow- 
ance. I  shall  just  leave  it  here  in  any  case,  and  if  you 
don't  like  to  accept  it,  ye  can  just  send  it  back  again. 
That's  no  afeer  o'  mine." 

"I  cannot  possibly  accept  it,"  Evan  answered.  "The 
conditions  which  accompany  the  gift  are  too  hard.  I  am 
asked  to  surrender  my  convictions." 

"  D your  convections,"  said  Quahar,  rumpling   bis 


181 


hair  with  both  hands  in  an  agony  of  irritation.  "Yes,  yes, 
yes,  Effie,  I  beg  your  j^ardon.  But  what's  to  be  done  with 
a  felly  like  this,  that's  hardly  out  of  his  swaddling-clothes, 
and  talks  about  his  convections  as  if  he  were  a  bald 
philosopher  of  ninety  !  I  tell  ye,  man,  that  ye're  notliin' 
less  than  maddenin'.  Ye  haven't  a  right  to  any  convections 
at  your  time  o'  life.  It's  just  your  business  to  be  sittin' 
humble  and  watchful  at  the  feet  of  experience.  Your 
convections,  as  you  call  them,  are  so  much  clotted  non- 
sense.    You're  clean  distempered  wi'  vanity." 

He  raised  both  hands  in  a  gesture  almost  tragic. 

"  At  least,  sir,"  said  Evan,  "  I  prove  my  sincerity." 

"Brag,"  snarled  the  old  man,  turning  on  him  fiercely. 
"Brag,  and  nothin'  but  brag.  Ye're  just  attitudinizing 
before  the  distorted  raerror  of  your  own  intelligence.  God 
forgive  me  for  the  use  o'  that  last  word,  but  it  was  the 
only  one  that  I  could  find.  Ye're  thinkin'  it  looks  great 
and  magnanimous  to  refuse  an  easy  livin',  and  I  can  tell 
ye  that  ye're  just  a  fool  for  your  pains.  Ye  take  in  no- 
body, y'  idiotic  young  poseur." 

"Do  you  know,  sir,"  Evan  answered,  "I  take  some 
credit  at  least  for  keeping  my  temper." 

"  Ye  deserve  none,"  Quahar  shouted.  "  Ef  your  prenci- 
ples  were  worth  a  feg  to  je,  3'e'd  fight  for  them," 

"I  shall  fight,  sir,"  said  Evan  grimly,  "with  the  right 
people,  at  the  right  place,  and  at  the  proper  time." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Scot,  with  that  pretence  at  coolness 
which  is  so  favorite  a  device  Avith  men  who  have  com- 
pletely surrendered  themselves  to  anger,  "  I'll  say  no 
more.  Ef  the  openion  o'  one  honest  man's  an^^  use  to  ye, 
ye  can  have  it.  Ye're  without  exception  the  most  rcdicu- 
lously  vain  j^oung  gentleman  I've  ever  met  in  my  life,  and 
your  convections,  as  ye  call  them,  will  have  done  the  Avorld 
some  service  when  they  land  ye  at  tlie  gallows." 

With  this    statement,  uttered  witli  a  philosophic  calm 


182 


and  slowness,  he  snatched  up  his  hat,  banged  it  savagely 
twice  upon  the  table,  whirled  round  upon  his  axis,  and 
sliot  from  the  room. 

Evan  looked  after  him  with  a  bitter  smile.  His  eye  fell 
upon  the  bank-note,  which  still  lay  upon  tlie  table,  and  he 
offered  it  to  his  remaining  visitor. 

"  Pra}'  oblige  me  by  returning  this  to  your  father,  Miss 
Qualiar." 

"  I  would  rather  not  do  that,"  she  answered.  "I  have 
no  right  to  speak,  but  are  you  justified  in  bringing  so 
much  grief  among  your  friends?  Every-body  who  knew 
you  looked  forward  to  a  career  for  you.  Oh,  Mr.  Rliys, 
you  must  admit  that  your  opinions  are  extreme.  You 
must  know  that  the  great  majority  of  people  think  them 
even  mad  and  wicked.  I  am  only  a  girl,  and  I  know  I 
have  no  power  to  persuade  you,  but  would  it  not  be  wise 
to  weigh  those  opinions  for  a  year  or  two  before  being 
quite  sure  of  them  ?  Are  you  quite  sure  of  being  right, 
when  all  the  woi'ld  believes  you  to  be  wrong?" 

"  Do  you  remember  my  father.  Miss  Quahar  ? "  he 
asked.  "  lie  was  hanged  fourteen  years  ago  for  the  mur- 
der of  a  man  whom  he  killed  by  accident  in  self-defence. 
That  man  ruined  my  father,  as  his  father  had  ruined  my 
grandfather.  There  was  a  feud  generations  long  between 
the  two  families.  The  gentleman  followed  the  laborer 
with  curses  for  a  mile  or  two,  and  at  last  would  have 
flogged  him  like  a  dog.  The  law  hanged  the  sufferer,  and 
had  nothing  but  pity  for  the  tyrant.  Do  you  remember 
my  mother  ?  Wliat  was  her  crime  ?  She  tried  to  save  her 
husband,  and  her  reward  Avas  ])cnal  servitude.  Do  you 
remember  my  baby  sister?  I  have  seen  you  nurse  her 
when  you  were  a  child.  They  tore  my  mother  away  from 
her,  and  she  was  left  in  that  lonely  shanty.  Nobody  heard 
her  crj'ing,  nobody  entered  the  house.  She  died  there 
of  starvation,  tlie  pitiable  little  mite.     I  remember  these 


183 


things,  if  other  people  forget  them.  The  law  is  one  mon- 
strous engine  of  cruelty  and  ojjpression.  Every  hour  of 
every  day  the  rich  are  at  active  war  against  the  poor. 
Society  is  built  on  pillage.  There  is  no  denying  these 
things.  There  is  no  disguising  them.  To  ask  me  to  deny 
them  is  like  asking  me  to  swear  that  noon  is  midnight.  I 
don't  choose  to  sell  my  conscience  for  a  thousand  francs  a 
month.  So  long  as  I  have  head  and  heart  and  brains,  I 
will  use  them  to  do  such  work  as  one  man  can  to  break 
up  the  reign  of  selfish  wickedness." 

"  There  is  trouble  everywhere,"  the  girl  answered,  Avhen 
at  last  the  impetuous  torrent  of  his  speech  had  ceased. 
"I'm  afraid  there  will  be  trouble  always,  but  surely  all  the 
rich  are  not  cruel  and  wicked  and  selfish.  You  should 
know  that.  Here  is  one  little  proof."  She  laid  her  hand 
upon  the  bank-note. 

"  A  very  little  proof  indeed,"  said  Evan.  "  Have  you 
any  guess  at  the  income  of  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel  ? 
I  suppose  that  what  he  spends  on  what  he  does  not  need 
would  find  bread  for  a  thousand  hungry  people  every  day. 
The  poor  get  a  crumb  from  the  rich  man's  table  now  and 
then,  but  what  right  has  the  rich  man  to  his  table  while 
millions  starve  ?  I  will  touch  none  of  his  money.  Miss 
Quahar.  If  I  were  myself  a  rich  man,  I  should  think  mj^- 
self  a  criminal.  I  would  purge  myself  of  that  offence  in 
a  day.  Wealth  is  the  crime  which  darkens  all  the  world, 
and  poverty  is  its  sliadow." 

"  I  am  too  young  and  ignorant,"  she  answered,  "  to  argue 
these  large  questions  ;  but  I  know  that  there  is  a  great 
deal  to  be  said  on  the  other  side,  and  I  should  think  it 
worth  while  to  listen  for  a  time." 

Evan  was  silent.  The  girl  looked  about  the  sordid  and 
comfortless  room  ;  the  discolored  walls,  the  bare  floor,  the 
meagre  table  and  the  chair  or  two,  the  smouldering  ashes 
on  the  hearth,  seemed  all  to  lay  a  chilly  hand  upon  her. 


184 


Her  eyes  travelled  back  to  Evan  with  a  kind  of  pity  in  their 
glance.  The  rain  drove  noisily  against  the  window,  and 
the  March  wind  groaned  and  rumbled  in  the  wide  chimney. 
The  young  fellow  in  his  shabby  dressing-gown  and  shabbier 
slippers  looked  altogether  forlorn  to  the  girl's  eyes. 

"  M}^  father  doubted  your  sincerity,"  she  said,  moved 
by  a  sudden  touch  of  kindness.  "That  was  unjust.  You 
have  given  up  a  great  deal." 

"  I  have  given  up  more  than  I  have  a  right  to  say,"  he 
answered,  "  As  for  this," — he  waved  his  hands  scornfully 
about,  to  indicate  the  poor  garniture  of  the  room, — "  I  care 
less  than  nothing.  I  was  bred  to  hunger  and  to  poverty, 
and  it  has  cost  me  very  little  trouble  to  learn  the  lessons  of 
my  childhood  over  again."  He  paused,  and  the  girl  found 
no  answer.  She  was  really  very  genuinely  sorry  for  him. 
He  seemed  to  her  to  be  throwing  his  life  away  for  a  chimera, 
and  she  not  onl^'-  believed  him  to  be  miserably  mistaken, 
but  felt  in  some  way  that  his  error  was  a  crime.  He  had 
grown  to  be  a  handsome  fellow,  though  his  face  was 
marred  by  its  settled  look  of  anger  and  obstinate  discon- 
tent, and  his  personal  aspect  had  some  weight  with  her, 
though  she  had  no  suspicion  of  the  fact. 

Evan  dropped  into  his  old  seat,  as  if  he  had  forgotten 
her  very  presence.  He  threw  a  last  billet  of  wood  on  the 
embers  of  the  fire,  and  sat  for  a  minute  staring  at  it. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  at  length,  "why  I  shouldn't 
tell  you.  You  will  go  away  this  afternoon,  and  it  is  very 
unlikely  that  we  shall  ever  meet  again." 

"I  hope  we  sliall,"  she  answered,  trying  to  speak  brightly. 

"  I  hope  with  all  my  soul  we  never  shall,"  he  answered. 
"That  sounds  brutal,  doesn't  it  ?  I  don't  mean  it  so,  but 
your  road,  Miss  Quahar,  lies  one  way,  and  mine  another. 
We  shall  live  in  different  camps,  and  fight  on  different 
sides,  for  this  is  a  matter  in  Avhich  everv-body  fights — 
nobody  can  help  fighting."     He   was  silent  again  for  a 


185 


second  or  two,  and  the  girl  waited  with  no  guess  of  Avhat 
was  coming.  "  That  isn't  what  I  had  to  say,"  he  went  on, 
with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  dead  fire.  "You  were 
saying  I  had  sacrificed  something,  and  perhaps  it's  just  as 
well  that  I  should  tell  you  of  the  only  sacrifice  which  has 
cost  rae  any  thing.  If  I  cared  to  accept  tlie  bribe  which  is 
offered  to  me,  I  might  stand  a  chance,  perhaps.  I  don't 
know.  I  might  stand  a  chance  of  winning  the  only  thing 
in  the  world  I  greatly  care  for." 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked  simply. 

The  answer  astonished  her  beyond  measure. 

"  You,"  said  Evan,  without  lifting  up  his  eyes.  "  I  might 
perhaps  have  conquered  your  affection  and  esteem,  but  if  I 
had  tried,  I  should  liave  despised  myself.  You  don't  care 
for  me,  except  in  the  way  of  friendship,  and  never  will, 
and  that's  a  happy  thing  for  both  of  us.  I  never  meant  to 
tell  you,  but  I  see  no  reason  wliy  you  shouldn't  know." 

The  girl  found  not  a  word  in  answer  to  this  strange 
declaration,  and  before  she  had  recovered  the  complete 
mastery  of  herself  a  rapid  and  angry  footstep  came  up  the 
staircase  with  a  sort  of  vehement  stamp,  and  Quahar  burst 
into  the  room. 

"  Ye're  here,  are  ye  ?"  he  said.  "I'd  gone  nigh  half  a 
mile  before  I  remembered  ye.  Ye'll  do  nothing  with  that 
sulky  heathen.     Come  away  !  " 


CHAPTER  VI 

QuAHAE  bustled  his  daughter  down  the  stairs  and  into 
the  street,  himself  far  too  angry  and  excited  to  notice  any 
little  peculiarity  which  might  have  displayed  itself  in  her 
manner.  For  a  minute  or  two  tliere  seemed  to  be  nothing 
in  the  girl's  head  but  an  empty  ringing,  but  as  this  sub- 
sided it  shaped  itself  into  words,  as  if  it  tolled  regretfully  : 
"  Poor  Evan !  poor  Evan !  poor  Evan ! "  over  and  over  again. 
His  declaration  had  taken  her  as  mucli  by  surprise  as  even 
the  manner  of  it  had  done.  Slie  walked  as  if  in  a  cloud, 
unconscious  of  the  things  about  her.  Her  father  had  put 
up  a  great  umbrella,  on  which  the  driving  rain  pattered 
noisil3\  When  she  awoke  a  little  to  herself,  this  thin 
shelter  seemed  to  shut  her  out  from  all  tlie  world,  except 
for  a  mere  strip  of  wet  and  gleaming  pavement. 

The  two  had  walked  side  by  side  for  some  minutes 
before  she  became  aware  that  her  father,  with  one  arm 
through  hers,  was  talking  in  a  loud  and  excited  tone.  She 
knew  then  that  he  had  been  expressing  himself  pretty 
much  in  the  same  fashion  ever  since  they  had  left  Evan's 
room. 

"  Yon  lad,"  Quahar  was  saying,  "  is  just  the  vary  deevil 
for  obstenacy  and  self-opcnion.  He  showed  it  when  he 
was  a  child.  That  walk  of  his  from  JVIelbourne  to  Ade- 
laide— five  hundred  miles  across  a  country  that's  four-fifths 
desert  !  What'd  bring  a  baby  undertaking  a  journey  like 
that  unless  he  had  tiie  deevil  in  'im  ?  He's  been  like  that 
ever  since.  When  once  he  gets  a  purpose  in  'im,  y've  no 
more  hope  of  changing  him  than  you  would  have  of  con- 
verting a  brick   wall.      It's  just   siiii[>le   waste  of  breath 

180 


187 


t'  argue  with  him,  A  strong  will's  one  thing,  but  that 
brutal  kind  of  insensate  obstenacy  is  another." 

They  walked  a  full  mile,  and  Quahar  walked  obliquely 
and  talked  breatlilessly  all  the  way,  and  all  the  while  in  his 
daughter's  brain  tolled,  "  Poor  Evan  !  poor  Evan  !  " 

She  was  glad  to  escape  lier  father  when  she  reached  the 
house  in  which  they  lodged.  Quahar  made  no  objection 
to  her  leaving  him,  for  both  were  half  drenched  with  the 
storm,  and  a  change  of  raiment  was  as  necessary  for  him 
as  for  her.  But  Ions:  after  he  had  returned  to  the  sitting- 
room,  and  had  begun  to  solace  himself  with  a  pipe  and  an 
unwonted  glass  of  whiskey,  his  daughter  lingered,  sunk  in 
her  own  thoughts,  and  unregardful  of  the  passage  of  tlie 
hours.  She  was  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  had  never  had 
a  love.  She  had  never  troubled  her  head  much  about 
young  men,  but  she  had  always  liked  Evan  better  than  any 
body  except  her  father,  and  until  the  misguided  young 
man  had  taken  to  journalism  they  had  been  on  terms  of 
great  intimacy  and  friendsliip.  And  now  Evan,  in  that 
extraordinary  fashion,  had  told  her  he  loved  her,  that  she 
was  more  to  him  than  any  thing  else  in  the  world,  and  in 
the  same  breath  had  bidden  her  farewell  for  good  and  all. 

Poor  Evan  ! 

She  was  quite  sure  that  she  was  not  in  the  least  in  love 
with  him,  but  she  was  very,  very  sorry  that  he  should 
waste  his  life,  and  throw  away  all  the  chances  which  were 
spread  before  him,  and  sail  to  his  own  shipwreck  with 
those  foolish  windy  doctrines  to  fan  him  on  his  course,  and 
the  coast  of  Despair  before  him.  She  remembered  Avhen 
she  had  first  come  over  from  Australia  how  well  every- 
body had  spoken  of  him,  and  how  proud  her  father's  noble 
patron  was  of  his  prot^g^.  Now  he  had  ruined  himself, 
and  was  altogether  lonely  and  abandoned  by  his  own 
deliberate  choice.  The  ideas  for  which  he  had  chosen  to 
cast  his  life  away   were  hopelessly   foolish.     Even  a  girl 


188 


could  see  that,  she  told  herself,  not  suspecting  her  own 
clear  masculine  judgment  and  the  Scottish  prudence  in- 
herited from  her  father.  And  then — and  then — and  then, 
after  all,  there  was  something  admirable  in  the  sacrifice. 
Had  it  been  made  in  a  cause  she  could  have  approved,  it 
would  have  seemed  altogether  admirable  and  splendid. 
He  was  a  Quixote  tilting  at  windmills,  absurd,  and  even 
laughable,  if  it  were  not  for  the  sadness  of  the  thing. 
But  he  was  brave  and  resolute,  and  scorned  discomfort. 
And  then  he  cared  for  her  more  than  any  thing  in  the 
world. 

Poor  Evan  ! 

She  was  quite  sure  that  her  own  heart  was  untouched 
except  by  pity  ;  but  the  more  she  thouglit  of  him  the 
more  the  pity  grew,  until  at  last  it  forced  a  tear  or  two 
from  her  eyes.  She  felt  a  gust  or  two  of  anger  at  her 
father's  treatment  of  the  misguided  young  man.  Nobody 
could  be  expected  to  yield  his  opinions  before  a  contempt 
so  peremptory  as  he  had  displa\'ed.  Her  father  was  entirely 
in  the  right  and  Evan  entirely  in  the  wrong,  and  j'et  surely 
it  would  have  been  possible  to  be  more  conciliatory.  She 
was  more  than  half  resolved  to  attempt  the  work  of  con- 
version in  her  own  person,  but  after  what  liad  happened 
that  looked  imi)Ossible.  The  confession  he  had  made 
placed  a  bar  between  them  which  looked  as  if  it  must  hold 
them  asunder  alwa^^s. 

The  days  and  the  weeks  went  on.  Smiling  April  fol- 
lowed roaring  March,  and  the  trees  on  the  boulevard  and 
about  the  Champs  filysecs  began  to  glitter  with  the  first 
sign  of  summer's  greenery.  She  thought  a  great  deal 
about  Evan,  and  heard  a  great  deal  about  liim.  Her  father 
had  paid  hira  more  than  one  visit,  and  spoke  of  him  occa- 
sionally with  a  touch  of  hope.  There  might  be  some 
lingering  remnant  of  reason  in  the  lad's  head,  after  all,  he 
began  to  say.     He  had  laid  down  that  revolutionary  pen. 


189 


it  seemed,  and  had  somehow  contrived  to  refit  his  labora- 
tory. He  had  gone  back  to  his  chemical  studies,  and  that 
to  Qualiar's  mind  was  a  hopeful  augury. 

"  The  lad's  not  a  fool  for  want  of  brains,"  said  Quahar. 
"  Outside  that  idiot  craze,  he's  as  bright  a  lad  as  ye'll  find 
in  a  day's  march.  But  he  sent  back  the  bank-note  I  left 
with  him,  and  he  just  refuses  to  argue,  or  listen  to  argu- 
ment, '  I've  med  up  my  mind,'  says  he — the  sulky  parrot. 
He'll  sa}^  that  all  day  ef  ye'll  lesten  t'm." 

At  least,  it  was  well,  so  the  girl  thought,  that  he  should 
have  resumed  his  studies,  and  have  ceased  to  write  the 
revolutionary  rubbish  which  had  awakened  such  a  clatter 
among  his  friends.  With  this  dawn  of  a  possible  change 
in  Evan's  conduct  there  came  also  a  first  faint  dawning  of 
another  sort.  For  if  Evan,  after  all,  were  going  to  give  up 
his  madness,  and  to  become  a  respectable  member  of 
society,  it  was  not  utterly  out  of  possibility  that  a  renewal 
of  his  strange  declaration  might  be  made.  If  he  really 
cared  for  her — if  she  were  really  more  to  him  than  any 
thing  else  in  the  world!  She  mused  often  about  these 
things  in  the  quiet  of  her  own  chamber,  or  when  she  sat 
sewing  and  seemed  to  listen  while  her  fatlier  read  aloud 
some  instructing  and  improving  volume  of  the  didactic 
sort,  an  exercise  of  which  he  was  inordinately  fond.  But 
it  was  in  her  free  daily  rambles  about  the  bright  Paris 
streets  that  she  had  her  best  time  for  thinking,  and  at 
such  times  Evan  was  very  often  in  her  mind. 

She  was  not  in  the  least  like  a  French  young  lady,  who 
cannot  move  anywhere  without  an  attendant  dragon. 
She,  indeed,  hardly  submitted  to  the  infinitely  milder 
restraint  which  is  imposed  upon  the  English  maiden.  She 
had  passed  her  childhood  and  early  girlhood  in  the  colo- 
nies, and,  whether  in  the  bush  or  in  the  city,  had  been 
accustomed  to  roam  where  she  pleased,  without  let  or  hin- 
drance.    She  brought  that  unconventional  habit  to  Paris 


190 


with  her,  and  if  sometimes  an  impertinent  boulevardier 
stared  at  her,  or  some  foppish  jackanapes  presumed  to  fall 
in  step  at  her  elbow,  she  regarded  him  no  more  than  the 
pavement  she  trod  upon,  and  was  not  in  the  remotest 
degree  inclined  to  be  afraid.  Some  men  were  built  that 
way — some,  but  not  nlan3^  The  few  who  were  so  built 
were  curiously  contemptible,  but  otherwise  without  inter- 
est of  any  sort. 

So  she  thought  until  one  bright  afternoon  in  early  sum- 
mer when  over  the  hard,  beaten  earth  of  the  Elysian  Fields 
of  Paris  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  and  the  netted  sun- 
beams danced  and  tumbled  over  each  other  to  a  music  she 
could  fancy,  but  could  not  hear.  The  air  was  balmj^,  the 
sun  was  not  too  warm  for  smart  walking,  in  which  she 
delighted,  the  children  were  playing  about  with  a  thou- 
sand dancing  globes  of  many  colors,  the  bonnes,  in  Alsatian 
raiment,  strolled  with  their  young  charges,  or  sat  knitting 
and  gossiping  together — the  whole  scene,  in  short,  was 
what  it  has  been  on  any  summer  afternoon  for  many  years 
past,  and  Effie  was  enjoying  it  with  all  her  heart,  when  she 
was  aware  of  a  dandy  shadow  by  the  side  of  her  own. 
The  shadow  was  that  of  a  person  of  the  male  sex  who 
wore  a  tall  hat,  raking  a  little  to  one  side,  and  a  tall  collar. 
The  shadow  of  a  hand  carried  the  shadow  of  a  walking- 
cane,  and  Piffle's  nostrils  told  licr  that  the  owner  of  the 
shadow  smelled  of  wine.  Quite  suddenly  she  became  aware 
of  the  fact  that  the  person  at  her  side,  whoever  he  might 
be,  had  been  walking  elbow  to  elbow  with  her  for  some 
considerable  number  of  seconds,  and  at  that  discovery  she 
turned  abruptly,  and  walked  toward  an  avenue  on  the  left. 
As  it  happened,  this  avenue  was  almost  deserted,  and  it  is 
conceivable  that  the  tipsy  fop  who  followed  her  accepted 
this  fact  as  a  kind  of  tacit  assignation.  Before  she  had 
taken  a  dozen  paces  he  was  again  up  to  her  elbow.  The  girl 
had  no  want  of  native  courage,  and  of  course  in  broad  day- 


191 


light,  and  within  sight  and  liearing  of  hundreds  of  people, 
she  was  in  no  danger  of  real  molestation.  She  stopped  as 
abruptly  as  she  had  turned,  and,  with  a  glance  of  majestic 
scorn,  traversed  the  intruder  on  her  privacy  from  top  to 
toe.  The  man  was  a  decent-looking  fellow  enough  had  he 
been  sober,  and  might,  indeed,  by  his  aspect  have  been 
something  very  like  a  gentleman  in  his  ordinary  move- 
ments. But  now,  after  a  too  generous  breakfast  with  the 
fork  and  eke  the  bottle,  he  had  grown  in  his  own  foolish 
mind  to  an  inescapable  killer  of  ladies — a  dead  shot, 
before  whose  conquering  aim  a  bird  of  any  plumage  was 
sure  to  fall.  The  poor  man  was  so  exceedingly  tipsy  that 
he  accepted  the  pause  and  the  measured  glance  of  con- 
tempt as  signs  of  yielding  to  his  own  conquering  graces. 
He  said  :  "Bon  jour,  charmante,"  and  made  as  if  he  would 
embrace  her.  Miss  Effie  easily  evaded  him,  and  walked 
on  again,  still,  unluckily  for  the  tipsy  gentleman,  in  the 
direction  of  the  less  peopled  avenue.  This  was  nothing 
more  nor  less  to  his  absurd  imagination  than  a  renewal  of 
the  lady's  former  acceptance  of  his  advances.  So  he  fol- 
lowed with  an  amused  joy,  and  actually  got  an  arm  round 
the  lady's  Avaist.  But  at  that  instant  his  rakish  hat  was 
knocked  suddenly  from  his  head,  and  he  himself,  being 
seized  by  the  back  of  the  neck,  was  spun  half  a  dozen 
yai-ds  away,  and  was  only  saved  from  falling  by  a  friendly 
tree.  He  saw  before  him,  between  the  conquered  lady  and 
himself,  a  young  man  of  fiery  aspect,  Avho,  to  judge  by  bis 
face  and  attitude,  was  eager  to  renew  the  assault  he  had 
already  committed. 

"The  poor  gentleman  is  tipsy,"  Effie  said  ;  "don't  hurt 
him,  Evan." 

The  poor  gentleman,  surveying  the  situation  with  a  face 
of  foolish  amazement,  made  a  wrinkled  progress  toward 
his  hat.  He  stooped  for  it  several  times,  and  straightened 
himself  each  time  laboriously,  and,  having  finally  assured 


192 


himself  of  his  own  centre  of  gravity,  secured  his  head- 
gear, brushed  the  frayed  silken  nap  on  his  arm,  and 
walked  awa}^,  humming  : 

"  '  Sou  vent  femme  varie 
Bieu  sot  est  qui  s'y  fie.'  " 

He  was  allowed  to  lurch  on  his  way  in  peace,  for  Effie, 
recognizing  Evan,  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  pretty, 
embarrassed  grace,  and  the  young  man  instaiitly  took  it  in 
his  own.  He  had  been  watcliing  the  girl,  so  it  transpired, 
for  half  an  hour  past,  and,  although  this  did  not  transpire, 
he  was  profoundly  grateful  for  the  opportunity  Avhich 
chance  had  aiforded  him.  It  is  one  thing  to  say  farewell, 
and  another  to  experience  division  and  solitude.  And 
Evan's  mind  had  been  travelling  in  the  same  direction  as 
that  which  Effie's  had  taken.  He  had  been  wondering  if 
it  were  not  possible,  at  least  in  part,  to  convert  her  to  his 
views,  and  in  this  case,  as  in  millions  of  others,  the  wish 
was  father  to  belief.  His  own  wild  theories  were  to  liini 
the  very  acme  of  common-sense.  Otherwise  assuredly  he 
would  not  have  held  them.  It  was  not  to  be  supposed 
that  a  young  woman  of  Effie's  training  Avould  be  brought 
to  see  the  absolute  moderation  of  M.  Cadoudul's  scheme 
for  the  employment  of  the  bomb,  but  it  was  b}^  no  means 
necessary  that  she  should  hear  of  that  scheme. 

Of  course  Effie  admired  her  protector's  courage.  He 
had  looked  very  cool  and  resolute,  and  ready  to  face  an 
army  of  such  a  kind  as  the  person  he  had  just  sent  about 
his  business.  She  was  pleased  to  see  that  he  was  much 
better  attired  than  he  had  been  when  they  had  last  encoun- 
tered, and  she  argued,  as  much  from  his  appearance  as 
from  the  news  l)er  father  had  brought  hei',  that  Evan  was 
making  a  backward  step  toward  civilization,  and  that  the 
task  to  which  she  had  set  herself  Avould  be  easier  of  accom- 
plishment than  she  had  fancied. 


193 


"Thank  you  very  mucli,  Evan,"  she  said  warmly,  with 
a  boyish  grip  of  the  liand,  and  a  boyish  candor  shining  in 
her  eyes.     "  Thank  you  very  much  indeed." 

"Did  the  fellow  frighten  you?"  asked  Evan,  looking 
vengefully  after  the  zigzagging  figure. 

"Oh,  no,"  Effie  answered,  with  a  little  laugh.  "I  don't 
think  I  was  frightened,  but  it  was  certainly  very  disagree- 
able to  be  embraced  by  a  tipsy  stranger  in  the  open  air. 
If  you  had  not  come  up  just  in  time,  it  would  have  been 
still  more  unpleasant." 

"  Was  the  blackguard  rough  with  you  ?"  Evan  enquired. 
"  Did  he  hurt  you  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  she  answered,  disposed  to  make 
light  of  the  incident,  and  to  discharge  it  from  her 
memory. 

"  You  will  allow  me  to  escort  you  home,"  said  Evan. 
"  You  must  not  run  the  risk  of  further  insult." 

"There  is  not  the  slightest  fear  of  that,"  she  answered 
merrily.  "  It  is  a  thing  that  never  happened  before,  and 
is  not  likely,  I  hope,  ever  to  happen  again." 

"  All  the  same,"  Evan  insisted,  "  I  shall  be  glad  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  see  you  home." 

"  Oh,  but  I'm  not  going  home  for  an  hour  or  an  hour 
and  a  half  to  come,"  the  girl  responded.  "  I  have  only 
begun  my  afternoon's  holiday.  I  Avalk  here  alone  every 
day  in  fine  weathei"." 

She  stopped  suddenly  in  some  confusion.  The  state- 
ment, offered  in  all  innocence,  sounded  like  an  assigna- 
tion. 

Evan  was  also  silent  and  confused,  and  with  excellent 
reason.  At  their  last  meeting  he  had  declared  his  love 
and  its  hopelessness,  and  now  that  they  were  again  brought 
face  to  face  he  had  nothing  to  say.  There  was  no  renew- 
ing the  old  theme  so  abruptly  broken,  and  commonplaces 
looked  hateful  and  intolerable.  Efiie  had  the  better 
13 


194 


courage  of  the  two,  as  women  almost  ahva3's  have  under 
similar  conditions. 

"  You  can  see  me  home  if  you  wish,"  she  said,  "  but  I 
"want  you  to  walk  with  me  first,  and  I  want  to  have  a 
serious  talk  with  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Evan  rather  stupidly. 

"Come,"  said  the  girl,  "you  must  help  rae.  You  must 
not  be  lumj^y  and  gloomy  and  unsympathetic.  I  want  to 
see  if  we  two  young  people  cannot  contrive  to  understand 
each  other." 

Evan  met  the  bright  and  tender  gayety  of  her  manner 
very  grimly. 

"  There  is  not  much  use  in  trying  for  that,  I  am  afraid," 
he  said  ;  and  the  pair  walked  on  in  silence  under  the 
leafy  trees. 

The  bustle  of  the  crowd  in  the  main  avenue  and  the 
noise  of  the  romping  children  grew  fainter,  and  at  length 
only  came  as  a  confused  murmur  to  the  ear. 

"  Evan,"  said  the  girl  suddenly,  "j^ou  have  given  me  a 
right  to  speak  to  3'ou.     I  am  going  to  take  it." 

lie  turned  upon  her  with  a  beating  heart,  and  saw  that 
her  cheeks  were  paler  than  common,  and  that  lier  lips 
were  trembling  ever  so  little.  She  met  his  startled  and 
wondering  look  bravely,  and  her  clear  eyes  looked  into  his 
with  a  candid  and  fearless  affection, 

"  You  have  not  forgotten  what  you  said  to  me  when  we 
last  met,"  she  said  to  him. 

"  Forgotten  !  "  he  echoed,  as  if  the  word  were  the 
prelude  to  a  great  outburst.  He  said  no  more,  how- 
ever, but  went  drooping  along,  gluml}'^  enough,  at  her 
side. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  either,"  said  Effie.  She  spoke 
with  an  ease  and  tranquillity  that  considerably  astonished 
herself.  "  You  must  let  me  speak  all  that  is  in  my  mind, 
dear  Evan,  for  I  think  I  may  be  able  to  help  you,  and  do 


195 


you  good.  You  told  me  there  was  nobody  in  tlie  world 
for  whom  you  cared  so  much  as  you  care  for  me." 

"Nobody,"  said  Evan,  sullenly  at  first,  and  then  with 
passion  :  "  Nobody  ! " 

"  I  have  thought  over  all  you  said,"  she  went  on  calmly, 
"  and  I  am  glad  you  like  me,  because  that  will  help  me  to 
have  some  weight  with  you.  Except  my  father,  I  don't 
like  any  body  in  the  world  as  much  as  I  do  you." 

"  I  didn't  talk  of  liking,"  Evan  broke  out,  for  the  con- 
versation between  them  was  naturally  carried  on  in  Eng- 
lish, and  the  difference,  which  might  have  been  slurred 
over  had  they  spoken  in  French,  stood  out"  too  clearly  to 
escape  perception.  "  I  talked  of  love,"  he  went  on  des- 
perately, "  and  I  was  a  fool  to  have  spoken  a  word.  I  had 
no  right  to  breathe  a  Iiint  to  j^ou.  The  world  isn't  going 
to  be  changed  in  an  hour  or  a  year.  Things  as  they  are 
may  last  your  time.  Your  life  may  be  bright  and  happy. 
Mine  can't  be,  and  I  must  travel  my  own  painful  road 
alone." 

"But  why,"  she  urged  him,  "should  your  road  be  pain- 
ful? You  have  everything  on  your  side  :  jouth,  health, 
and  friends.  You  are  clever.  There  is  nothing  to  pi'e- 
vent  you  from  making  a  name  and  a  place  for  j^ourself." 

"I  shall  do  that,"  he  answered.  "But  it  will  not  be  a 
name  j^ou  would  care  to  hear,  or  a  place  that  you  would 
choose  to  see  me  in." 

His  words  chilled  her  more  than  she  cared  to  own,  but 
she  made  a  pretence  of  valuing  them  lightl}'. 

"  Come,  come,  Evan,  this  is  mere  melodrama.  Let  us 
be  serious.  Let  us  talk  as  friends  talk.  Let  us  have  no 
secrets  between  us,  and  no  misunderstandings." 

"I  speak  of  love,"  said  Evan,  pressing  both  clenched 
hands  against  his  heart  with  undemonstrative  inward 
rage,  "  and  you  speak  of  friendship.  I  was  a  fool  to  speak 
at  all,  for  I  know  that  there  is  no  possibility  of  any  thing 


196 


between  us.  You  will  go  on  in  j^our  own  way,  and  I  shall 
go  on  in  mine.  You  will  be  taught  bj'  those  about  you  to 
execrate  my  very  name,  and  every  day  that  passes  over  us 
will  lead  us  further  apart  from  each  other." 

"I  am  sure,"  she  answered  steadil}-,  "that  I  shall  never 
execrate  your  name  whatever  hapi^ens,  for  I  am  sure  that 
whatever  you  do  will  be  done  because  you  think  you  see 
your  duty  in  it.  That  is  my  main  reason  for  liking  you, 
and  admiring  you." 

"  There  have  been  some  women,"  he  returned,  "  who 
have  fought  in  such  a  cause  as  that  in  which  I  am  enlisted. 
Not  many.     And  they  have  not  been  of  your  type." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  my  type,  Evan  ?  "  she  asked 
him  patiently  enough. 

"I  find  no  fault  with  the  type,"  he  answered,  with  a 
passing  touch  of  gayety  and  affection;  "but  you  have 
none  of  the  enthusiasm  which  impels  a  woman  to  lay  down 
her  life  for  an  ideal." 

"  You  mean,"  she  answered,  lifting  her  straight,  sensible 
eyebrows,  "that  I  am  not  flighty,  and  that  I  have  a  little 
saving  common-sense.  You  see,  Evan,  I  am  very  young, 
and,  in  comparison  witli  you,  I  am  very  ignorant  ;  but  you 
remember  what  old  John  Selden  said  :  '  Nobody  is  the  wiser 
for  his  learning.  Wit  and  wisdom  are  born  with  a  man.' 
I  suppose  it's  the  same  with  a  woman.  The  world  has 
always  seemed  to  me  such  a  great,  heavy,  sluggish  thing, 
so  impossible  for  any  one  man  to  move.  There  are  hun- 
dreds of  things  to  regret  in  it,  hundreds  of  things  to  mend, 
but  each  one  of  us  can  only  do  his  duty.  The  gi'cat  big 
ball  goes  on  rolling,  jon  know,  and  we  can  neither  stop  it 
nor  turn  it  aside.  If  you  will  let  me  speak  quite  plainly 
to  you,  Evan " 

"  Certainl}'-,"  he  said.  He  Avas  going  to  demolish  her 
whole  argument  by  and  by,  and  could  afford  to  be  gra- 
cious for  a  moment. 


197 


"Well,  then,"  she  went  on,  "I  think  the  rock  on  which 
all  you  fine  theorists  come  to  grief  is  egotism,  pure  and 
simple.  You  think  your  ideas  are  of  value  because  you 
hold  them.  You  are  here  on  tliis  monstrous  planet  for  an 
hour  or  two.  You  can't  even  lift  yourself  for  a  second  at 
a  time  if  you  tug  your  liardest,  and  you  think  you  can 
lift  the  whole  world.  You  are  in  too  much  of  a  hurry. 
The  social  rosebud  doesn't  open  fast  enough  for  jou,  and 
you  want  to  pull  it  open,  as  if  that  was  the  way  to  grow  a 
flower.  I  am  not  trying  to  hurt  you,  Evan,  I  am  only 
trying  to  tell  you  exactly  what  I  think.  The  root  of  all 
your  trouble,  and  the  root  of  the  trouble  of  all  the  people 
who  think  as  you  do,  is  an  impatient  vanity." 

"  Aiul  so,"  said  Evan  sardonically,  "  we  are  all  to  sit 
down  in  humility  and  patience,  and  to  be  ground  body  and 
soul  by  this  diabolical  social  mill.  We  are  to  see  Lazarus 
at  the  door  of  Dives,  without  even  the  crumbs  which  fall 
from  the  rich  man's  table,  or  so  much  as  a  friendly  dog  to 
lick  his  sores.  And  we  are  not  to  gird  at  Dives.  We  are 
not  to  tell  Dives  that  he  is  a  sordid  and  selfish  beast,  or 
even  to  notice  that  he  sickens  with  his  own  excess  of 
pleasure." 

"Why  not,"  she  answered — "why  not  tell  the  honest 
truth  in  all  places?  You  are  clothed  in  no  purple,  Evan, 
but  you  wear  fine  linen.  I  don't  think  that  you  fare 
sumptuously  every  day,  but  you  have  enough  to  eat,  and  a 
roof  to  cover  you.  Sometimes  when  I  see  the  very  poor  I 
am  ashamed  to  be  well  dressed  and  well  fed  and  happy, 
and  to  know  that  I  have  done  nothing  to  deserve  it  all. 
But  these  things  are  not  ordered  by  you  and  by  me.  We 
can't  help  them.  We  can't  change  them.  There  have 
always  been  rich  and  poor." 

"  There's  the  cloven  hoof  of  the  true  conservative,"  said 
Evan.  "  As  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall 
be,  world  without  end,  Amen.     If  the  fault  on  our  side  is 


198 


vanity  and  impatience,  the  fault  on  yours  is  indolence  and 
selfishness,  and  I  would  rather  overestimate  my  power  a 
little,  and  be  in  a  little  bit  of  a  hurry,  than  do  nothing  at 
all  because  no  man  can  do  much." 

"  Let  us  sit  down,"  she  said  ;  for  in  the  heat  of  speech, 
Evan  had  begun  to  walk  at  a  jiace  which  gave  the  girl 
some  trouble  to  keep  up  with  him.  There  was  a  shaded 
seat  near  at  hand,  and  he  obeyed  her  wish. 

A  slow  and  statel}^  step  drew  near,  but  neither  of  them  re- 
garded it  until  M.Paul  Cadoudal  paused  before  them,  with 
a  big  umbrella  over  his  shoulder,  and  a  dove-colored  hat 
surmounting  his  benevolent  head  of  silvery  hair.  M,  Paul 
Cadoudal  bad  recognized  Evan  a  full  five  minutes  back, 
and  had  meant  to  have  speech  with  him.  He  himself  was 
a  bachelor,  and  had  a  natural  and  legitimate  dread  of  the 
womenfolk  of  all  his  co-conspirators. 

"  Bon  jour,"  said  monsieur,  with  his  most  amiable  and 
winning  smile.  "  Your  pardon,  mademoiselle."  It  was 
im2)ossible  to  look  at  Efiie  and  to  imagine  for  a  moment 
that  she  was  such  a  chance  companion  as  a  young  man  of 
rackety  taste  might  find  in  the  Elysian  Fields  at  that  hour. 
He  raised  his  hat,  and  stood  before  her  with  his  tall  bald 
forehead  and  his  genial  smile,  a  venerable  and  beautiful 
figure.  "  My  young  friend  may  perhaps  do  me  the  honor 
to  introduce  me." 

Evan  performed  the  ceremony  of  introduction,  and  M. 
Cadoudal  shook  hands  with  the  young  lady  with  a  paternal, 
and,  indeed,  almost  a  caressing,  air. 

"  You  will  come  to  me,"  he  said,  addressing  Evan 
suavely,  "  at  your  earliest  possible  convenience.  I  have 
business  of  the  utmost  importance  to  yourself,  and  the 
sooner  I  can  explain  it  to  you  the  bettor." 

Every-body  knew  M.  Paul  Cadoudal,  and  Effie,  J'oung 
as  she  was,  and  a  foreigner,  was  familiar  with  his  dis- 
tinguished  name.     She   was   honestly  jjleased  that  Evan 


199 


should  have  so  eminent  a  friend.  M.  Cadoiulal  was,  to  be 
sure,  a  man  of  advanced  opinions,  but  he  Avas  no  extremist, 
and  his  influence  was  bound  to  be  exerted  on  the  right 
side. 

"  I  will  not  detain  you  for  a  moment,"  she  said  there- 
fore ;  "I  shall  make  my  Avay  straight  home." 

She  shook  hands  with  Evan,  made  a  pretty  little  half- 
rustic  obeisance  to  the  philosopher,  and  walked  briskly  in 
the  direction  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 

"A  pretty  girl,"  said  M,  Cadoudal.  "  An  old  acquaint- 
ance ?  " 

"  I  have  known  her,"  said  Evan,  "  almost  ever  since  I 
could  remember.  We  were  playmates  in  our  childhood  in 
Australia." 

"  Tenez,"  responded  M,  Cadoudal.  "  I  want  you  to  come 
to  my  house,  my  young  friend.     I  have  news  to  give  you." 

He  offered  no  further  explanation,  but,  encountering 
near  the  Rond  Point  a  man  who  was  carrying  a  great 
load  of  papers  to  some  outlying  kiosk,  he  bought  from 
him  an  evening  journal,  and,  folding  back  the  page,  laid 
a  gloved  finger  on  the  head-line  of  a  column  :  "  Anarchist 
Outrage  in  the  Rue  Tirabale  !  " 


CHAPTER, 'VII 

M.  Cadoudal  resided  in  tbe  Avenue  de  la  Grande 
Armee.  He  owned  a  well-to-do  looking  house,  wLicli 
stood  a  little  back  from  the  street,  in  the  shade  of  its  own 
trees,  and  was  approached  through  a  trim  little  bit  of 
garden.  Mignonette,  the  Frenchman's  darling,  circled  all 
the  little  oval  flower-beds,  and  bloomed  odorously  in  shal- 
low green  boxes  on  the  window-sills.  The  front  door  was 
set  in  trellis- work,  and  the  climbing  roses  were  alread}'' 
rich  in  leaf,  if  sparse  in  blossom.  The  whole  place  looked 
like  the  abode  of  innocence,  and  M.  Cadoudal  in  his  broad- 
brimmed,  dove-colored  soft  felt  hat,  with  his  clean-shaven, 
benevolent  countenance  and  his  flow  of  silver  hair,  was  as 
appropriate  an  inhabitant  of  such  a  domicile  as  might  be 
found  in  all  Paris. 

At  the  back  of  the  house  there  was  a  garden,  very  much 
larger  than  that  which  bloomed  in  front  of  it.  This  second 
garden  was  surrounded  by  a  high  wall,  pierced  in  one  place 
by  a  green-painted,  weather-blistered  door,  which  fastened 
by  a  clumsy  lock  into  a  rusty  staple.  M.  Cadoudal,  smok- 
ing a  cigarette,  and  sauntering  slowly  up  and  down  the 
path  which  led  directly  from  the  French  windows  of  his 
own  study  to  the  door  in  the  garden  M'all,  took  occasion 
to  turn  the  key  in  the  shrieking  lock  and  to  look  up  and 
down  the  lonely  little  back  road  which  lay  beyond.  Evan 
took  no  note  of  the  circumstance  at  the  moment,  but  M. 
Cadoudal  left  the  door  unfastened  and  resumed  his  walk. 

From  the  moment  at  which  ho  had  laid  his  fore-finger  on 
that  significant  head-line  Evan's  guide  and  ])hi]osopher 
had  said  nothing.  He  had  folded  the  evening  journal  into 
a  convenient  size,  had  conveyed    it   to  his  breast-pocket, 

200 


201 


and  bad  walked  on  witli  an  air  of  beatific  calm.  As  he 
strolled  up  and  down  the  garden  with  Evan  at  his  side  he 
drew  out  the  paper  and  read  aloud  from  it  the  story  of 
that  day's  mischief.  Evan  learned  that  in  broad  daylight, 
though  in  a  deserted  thoroughfare,  a  bomb  had  been 
exploded  in  a  third-rate  cafe,  that  a  waiter  had  been 
frightfully  injured,  and  that  one  or  two  guests  who  were 
in  the  enjoyment  of  a  jjetit  verre  after  their  mid-day  meal 
had  incurred  minor  damages, 

"  These  people,"  said  Cadoudal,  "  are  curiously  unre- 
strained and  motiveless.  What  could  have  induced  any 
body  to  attack  a  place  of  that  sort  ?  "  His  voice  rose  as 
he  put  the  question,  and  ended  in  a  crack.  "  What  is  to 
be  gained  by  it  ?  I  ask  you,  my  young  friend,  what  is  to 
be  gained  by  it?  'The  gai-yon  of  the  cafe,' "  he  read,  "  '  is 
not  expected  to  survive.  The  bomb  exploded  immediately 
beneath  the  unfortunate  man,  and  his  injuries  are  of  such 
a  nature  as  to  leave  room  for  surprise  that  he  was  not 
killed  upon  the  spot.'  Now,  ray  young  friend,"  continued 
M.  Cadoudal,  "  is  there  not  a  most  lamentable  waste  of 
enterprise,  of  energy,  of  ingenuity,  of  courage,  or  what- 
ever goes  to  make  a  revolutionary  movement  admirable  ? 
All  thrown  away.     Absolutely  thrown  away." 

He  talked  in  a  loud  and  excited  voice  as  he  strode  up 
and  down  the  garden  path. 

"  I  am  in  sympathy,"  he  said,  "  and  I  do  not  care  who 
knows  it, — I  proclaim  it  from  the  house-tops, — I  am  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  down-trodden  and  oppressed,  and  I  would 
blow  up  an  emperor  or  a  czar  with  all  the  pleasure  in  life  ; 
but  I  protest,  all  the  same,  against  these  meaningless  and 
purposeless  outrages,  which  make  the  cause  of  liberty 
accursed  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  at  large.  The  ruffian 
who  threw  that  bomb,"  he  declared,  flourishing  his  right 
arm  in  the  air,  "  has  put  back  the  clock  of  progress  by  a 
year." 


202 


He  was  extremely  oratorical  and  vehement,  and  said 
much  more  to  the  same  purpose,  and  when  the  flood  of  his 
eloquence  had  subsided,  he  led  the  way  into  his  study, 
closing  the  French  doors  behind  him. 

"  My  neighbor  on  this  side,"  he  said,  with  a  backward 
nod  of  the  head,  "  is  a  somewhat  curious  person.  He  had 
the  window  open  just  now,  and  had  his  ear  laid  to  it.  I 
saw  him,  the  scelerat^''  he  said,  laughing  with  an  innocent 
heartiness,  "  and  I  thought  it  worth  while  to  treat  him  to  a 
spoonful  of  that  infant's  meat  on  which  our  good  republi- 
cans feed  us.  All  the  same,"  he  added,  with  recovered 
gravity,  "  I  am  inclined  to  think  the  event  of  this  afternoon 
lamentable.  And,  talking  of  meat  and  spoons,  my  young 
friend,  let  us  see  when  we  may  expect  dinner." 

He  touched  a  gOTig  which  lay  near  his  hand,  and  a 
fresh-colored,  neatly  attired  waiting-maid  came  into  the 
room. 

"  Now,  here  is  a  charming  young  woman,"  said  Cadou- 
dal,  rubbing  his  white  hands,  and  beaming  on  the  pretty 
little  domestic,  who  blushed  and  smiled,  and  bridled  in  a 
pleased  confusion.  "  I  am  an  amateur  in  youth  and  beauty. 
My  compliments  to  the  cook,  Lucile,  and  when  dinner  is 
ready  for  me,  I  am  ready  for  dinner.  I  need  not  remind 
you.     You  see  my  guest.     An  extra  cover." 

The  prett}^  girl  disajipeared,  and  the  distinguished 
philosopher  chatted  with  a  delicate  animation,  touching  on 
many  points  of  interest  for  the  hour,  and  ornamenting  all 
with  a  stroke  of  wit  or  good-nature  or  apt  quotation. 
The  d'ning-room  was  a  snug  little  chamber,  with  climbing 
plants  about  the  window,  and  a  bird  in  a  gilded  cage, 
which,  late  as  the  hour  was,  began  to  sing  with  great 
ardor  as  the  master  of  the  house  entered  the  apartment. 

"  You  will  meet,"  said  jNI.  Cadoudal,  when  the  pretty 
domestic  had  served  the  soup  and  retired — "3'ou  Avill  meet 
this   evening   a  colleague    whom   I   think   you    have   not 


203 


hitherto  encountered.  Do  you  know  our  friend  Lebon  ? 
No  ?  I  thouglit  not.  Jacques  Lebon,  a  useful  man,  by 
trade  a  brass-founder.  I  must  make  him  known  to  you. 
It  is  a  little  interesting  that  our  friend  Lebon  should  have 
been  led  to  embrace  the  cause  mainly  from  the  evil  treat- 
ment he  has  received  at  the  hands  of  an  old  friend  of 
yours." 

"  An  old  friend  of  mine,  sir  ?  " 

"  Your  friend  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel,"  resjDonded 
Cadoudal.  "This  man  Lebon  has  a  motlier — no  unusual 
circumstance,  but  one  to  which  he  appears  to  attach  a 
superstitious  value.  lie  is  of  tlie  same  age  as  the  duke, 
and  his  mother  acted  as  the  young  aristocrat's  wet  nurse. 
In  the  mind  of  our  friend  Lebon  that  has  established 
a  claim  against  your  late  patron.  Your  late  patron,  it 
seems,  declines  to  recognize  the  claim,  or  forgets  it,  or 
neglects  it,  and  behold  !  the  poor  Lebon  is  driven  into  our 
brotherhood.  It  is  not  a  logical  movement,  as  j'ou 
observe.  The  man  obeys  a  passionate  instinct,  wliich  is 
something  of  a  pity,  for  what  I  would  seek  most  of  all  in 
the  futherance  of  our  aims  is  the  spirit  of  dispassionate 
justice.  Not  to  gratify  this,  that,  or  the  other  private 
spite,  but  because  it  is  necessary  for  the  salvation  of  the 
body  politic,  we  resolve  upon  a  certain  course  of  action. 
You  will  see  our  friend  Lebon,"  he  concluded,  "  and  I  dare 
say  you  will  understand  from  him  why  I  desire  that  you 
should  be  known  to  each  other," 

Beyond  this  M.  Cadoudal  gave  his  young  friend  no 
reason  for  having  sought  his  companionship.  He  seemed, 
indeed,  so  far  as  Evan  could  judge,  desirous  not  to  be 
questioned,  and  the  young  man,  seeing  this,  forbore  to 
trouble  him.  He  Avas  somewhat  puzzled  by  his  host's 
speech  and  manner,  and  had  some  difficulty  in  deciding 
upon  the  nature  of  the  philosopher's  sentiments.  The 
j^oung  man  liked  to  classif}^  jieople,  and  he  did  not  find  it 


204 


easy  to  classify  M.  Cadoudal,  who  contrived  to  be  all 
manner  of  people  in  a  single  half  hour,  to  be  delightfully 
sympathetic,  to  be  icily  cj'nical,  to  be  serious  and  flijipant 
in  a  breath,  and  to  cover  all  with  the  same  innocent,  bland, 
and  engaging  smile. 

But  when  dinner  had  been  over  for  an  hour,  and  the 
Ma}'"  dusk  had  alread}^  fallen  on  the  pleasant  garden  and 
the  broad  avenue,  guests  began  to  drop  in,  as  if  M. 
Cadoudal  were  holding  a  holiday  reception.  Petrovna 
came,  attired  in  evening  dress,  having  an  engagement 
later  on,  as  he  jirotested,  at  the  opera.  M.  Dusaulx 
appeared  in  speckless  black  and  white  as  heretofore, 
guarding  his  shift}'  eye  from  the  remotest  contact  with  his 
neighbors'.  Mr.  Frost  came  later  on,  full  of  Irish-Ameri- 
can urbanities,  but  obviously  a  good  deal  stricken  by  the 
news  of  the  afternoon,  and  drawing  people  into  corners  to 
consult  them  as  to  their  views. 

"  Naow,"  said  Mr.  Frost,  with  an  evidently  genuine 
solicitude,  "  what  I  want  to  know  is  what  effect  this 
ridicalous  folly  is  going  to  produce  on  the  public  mind.  I 
am  known,  sir,"  he  explained  to  Evan,  "  in  most  Euroepian 
capitals  as  an  emissary  of  the  Cave  of  Freedom,  and  it  is 
likely  enough  to  be  supposed  that  my  society  has  had 
something  to  do  with  thisblahsted  nonsense.  Now,  sir,  my 
society  does  not  encourage  this  particular  kind  of  stoo- 
pidity.  Because  I  happen  to  be  a  representative  public 
man  I  have  no  desire  to  be  lynched  in  the  streets  of  Paris. 
These  ridicalous  manifestations  should  be  put  down,  and 
put  down,  sir,  with  a  strong  hand.  We  have  no  right  to 
waste  our  forces,  and  when  our  forces  air  expended,  they 
should  be  expended  in  the  right  direction.  And  I  reckon, 
sir,  that  it  is  the  dooty  of  the  conclave  to  apprise  every 
one  of  its  members  of  what  is  intended  to  be  done  before 
any  overt  act  is  committed.  I  reprehend  the  remissness 
of  the  committee,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Frost  with  emphasis.     "  I 


205 


feel  it  keenly.  They  have  no  right  to  expose  a  prominent 
citizen  of  another  nation  to  danger." 

In  fluent  but  tremulous  Anglo-Hibernian-Aniericanese 
Mr.  Frost  discoursed  on  this  topic  to  all  who  could  listen 
to  him,  and  to  those  who  could  not  understand  his  native 
tongue  he  explained  his  woes  in  halting  French,  until  at 
last  he  made  a  sort  of  halo  of  solitude  about  himself,  and 
the  mere  indication  of  a  movement  on  his  part  sufficed  to 
clear  any  corner  of  the  room.  Finall}^  M.  Dusaulx  was 
the  only  person  whom  he  could  induce  to  listen  to  him,  and 
that  gentleman  afforded  him  the  coldest  comfort. 

"  If  the  mob,"  said  M.  Dusaulx,  "  should  be  moved  in 
the  direction  you  indicate,  they  would  probably  tear  you 
into  little  pieces.  I  have  never  seen  a  man  torn  into  little 
pieces." 

He  said  this  with  such  a  dreadful  air  of  disappointed 
relish  that  Frost  shivered  as  if  an  icicle  had  been  passed 
between  his  collar  and  his  spine.  For  many  years  past  the 
anarchic  creed  had  afforded  Frost  a  laborless  means  of 
livelihood,  but  he  had  never  really  liked  it.  It  was  delicious 
to  live  without  woi*k,  but  it  was  hard  that  a  paradise  of 
harmless  dreams  should  be  broken  in  upon  by  realities  like 
these. 

By  the  time  at  which  the  dark  of  the  spring  night  had 
fairly  fallen  there  were  some  ten  or  a  dozen  resi)ectabl3^ 
attired  people  gathered  in  M.  Cadoudal's  study  ;  and,  the 
evening  air  being  soft  and  balmy,  the  tall  and  wide  windows 
were  left  fully  open,  so  that  a  broad  beam  of  light  ran  for 
some  distance  down  the  garden  path,  and  showed  tlie 
springtide  blossoms  which  grew  on  either  side  of  it.  The 
hour  of  nine  struck  resonantly  from  the  mantel-piece,  and 
the  last  note  had  barely  vibrated  into  silence  when  a  step 
was  heard  in  the  garden,  and  a  dark,  formless  figure  gradu- 
ally resolved  itself  into  the  aspect  of  M.  Ducos.  M.  Ducos 
was    in    his    customary  attire   of   unblacked   boots,   blue 


206 


blouse,  and  flat  workman's  cap.  lie  was,  as  usual,  dirty 
and  unshaven,  and  he  had,  as  usual,  been  drinking.  He 
saluted  every-bod}'^  with  an  air  of  coarse  faniiliarit}',  and 
slapped  the  philosopher  on  the  shoulder,  calling  him  "Mon 
bon,"  "  Mon  brave,"  and  "  IVIon  ami,"  with  a  tipsified  effu- 
sion. The  master  of  the  house  submitted  to  these  endear- 
ments with  an  excellent  grace,  and  handed  on  the  new-comer 
to  a  fellow-guest  with  perfect  urbanity.  Then  came  sepa- 
rately three  men  who  to  look  at  were  members  of  the 
decent  working  class.  One  turned  out  to  be  a  compositor, 
and  another  a  shoemaker.  The  third  was  the  man  of  whom 
Cadoudal  had  already  sjDoken,  Lebon,  the  brass-founder, 
the  declared  enemy  of  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel. 

This  Lebon  was  one  of  the  unfortunates  of  nature  who, 
whether  the  world  go  well  or  ill  Avith  them,  find  it  insuffer- 
ably weary.  There  was  neither  discontent  nor  anger  in  the 
expression  of  his  face,  but  he  looked  as  if  he  could  cry  at 
any  minute,  saving  his  manhood.  And  along  with  this 
look  of  tearful  lassitude  he  had  something  of  the  facial 
aspect  of  a  man  who  has  just  tasted  a  nauseous  medicine. 
Fatigue  and  a  resigned  disgust  were  upon  him,  but  when 
Evan,  interested  in  the  man  because  of  his  association 
with  his  own  old  patron,  fell  into  conversation  with  him,  the 
man  made  no  complaint  and  offered  no  grievance  against 
the  world.  His  face  alone  and  his  presence  in  that  society 
seemed  to  offer  a  sufilcient  i)rotest. 

Cadoudal,  having  received  Iiis  last  guest,  closed  the 
French  windows,  and  drew  the  blinds,  but  before  he  did 
so  Evan  observed  that  he  exchanged  a  whisper  with  a 
person  who  remained  on  guard  in  the  outside  darkness. 

"The  event,"  said  the  rhetorician,  "which  lias  induced 
me  to  take  the  liberty  of  calling  you  together  this  evening 
is  without  doubt  familiar  to  us  all  in  the  fullest  details 
the  press  of  the  city  can  afford.  I  do  not  know  how  far  I 
shall  be  followed   by  the  symjiathy  and  approval  of  my 


207 


colleagues  when  I  declare  that,  in  my  opinion,  no  more 
foolish,  futile,  and  mischievous  act  could  have  been  com- 
m^itted  by  the  bitterest  enemy  of  our  cause.  It  is  not  my 
business  to  inflict  an  oration  upon  you,  but  I  wish  to  offer 
for  your  approval  a  simple  and  direct  suggestion.  I  learn 
from  the  journal  I  hold  in  my  hand," — he  drew  it  from  his 
pocket  as  he  spoke, — "  that  the  explosive  employed  was 
incased  in  bronze,  and  that  the  bronze  was  cast  in  a  cir- 
cular form.  That,  my  comrades,  is  enough  to  mark  the 
missile.  I  shall  propose  that  every  person  to  whose  care 
an  instrument  has  been  confided  shall  produce  it  at  our 
next  meeting,  in  order  that  we  may  know  by  whom  this 
meaningless  outrage  was  perpetrated.  In  the  course  of  the 
campaign  which  is  forced  upon  us  by  the  existing  condi- 
tions of  society  we  are  certain  of  making  many  enemies. 
We  are  assured  beforehand  of  being  misunderstood  and 
vilified,  but  we  are  not  content  to  be  branded  as  purpose- 
less madmen,  or  to  make  our  own  cause  hideous  in  the 
popular  mind  by  acts  which  can  do  nothing  to  advance 
our  hopes." 

"Regardez  un  peu,  mon  bon,"  said  the  drunken  Ducos, 
lurching  upward  from  his  seat.  "Je  suis  CoUectiviste, 
moi." 

M.  Cadoudal  attempted  to  soothe  the  interrupter,  but 
had  no  success  in  that  direction. 

"  Needless,"  said  the  alcoholized  Ducos,  "  to  make  any 
perquisition  into  ray  affairs.  The  act  was  mine,  and  in  it 
I  find  my  glory.  I  shall  acknowledge  it  before  the  accursed 
tribunals  of  my  unhappy  country  as  freely  as  I  proclaim  it 
here.     Je  suis  CoUectiviste.     Vois-tu?" 

With  this  proclamation  of  his  faith  he  tumbled  back 
into  his  chair,  and  looked  about  him  with  a  sleepy  defiance 
in  his  little  blood-shot  eyes. 

"For  my  own  part,"  said  M,  Cadoudal,  "I  profoundly 
regret  the  action  of  my  friend  Ducos,  and  I  venture  to  ask 


208 


him  on  wliat  groimd  of  service  or  expediency  to  the  cause 
he  supposes  liimself  to  excuse  it." 

The  drunken  Ducos  demanded  from  his  seat  to  be 
answered.  Was  a  Frenchman  a  slave  ?  Was  a  man  who 
had  eaten  a  dinner  or  two  at  a  restaurant  to  be  persecuted 
for  his  bill  ?  If  he  had  mistaken  the  garyon  for  tlie  patron, 
that  was  his  affair.  He  regretted  his  error  more  than  any- 
one else  Avas  likely  to  do.  For  the  rest,  he  was  a  man,  and 
a  freeman,  Collectiviste  to  be  sure,  but  a  man  all  the  same 
and  answerable  to  nobody — ni  Dieu  ni  maitre. 

Having  offered  this  proclamation  with  great  warmth  and 
much  exuberance  of  action,  he  fell  asleep. 

"  I  fail  to  see,"  said  M.  Cadoudal,  his  customary  smile  a 
little  distorted — "  I  fail  to  see  in  what  manner  we  are  to 
deal  with  our  friend  Ducos." 

"  I,"  said  Petrovna,  springing  to  his  feet,  "  rise  to  pro- 
pose that  the  satisfaction  of  au}^  private  grudge  by  means 
provided  by  this  society  be  henceforth  punishable  by 
death." 

"I  support  that  proposal,"  said  M.  Dusaulx,  rising  in 
his  turn.  "  It  is  shameful  that  good  sport  be  spoiled  at 
the  whim  of  a  drunken  fool." 

Carried,  nemeni  contradicente. 

Practically,  the  business  for  which  the  meeting  had 
been  called  together  seemed  ended  with  the  statement 
Ducos  had  volunteered.  The  opinion  was  universal  :  this 
drunken  ruffian  had  brought  obloquy  upon  the  cause  for 
naught. 

]V[r.  Frost  pointed  out  in  a  speech  which  was  translated 
by  Petrovna  that  every  effort  the  society  made  exposed 
every  member  of  the  society  to  the  gravest  danger.  The 
prudent  Frost  argued  that  no  more  danger  could  be 
incurred  by  the  most  damaging  blow  they  could  strike  at 
the  institutions  they  desired  to  abolish  than  was  brought 
upon  them  by  this   snoring  drunkard's   madness.     Frost 


209 


invited  the  company  to  strike  and  strike  strongly  in  the 
right  direction,  but  he  appealed  to  their  sense  of  justice 
and  fairness.  '  He  pointed  out,  not  without  delicacy,  that 
before  the  blow  was  struck  it  was  their  duty  to  a  foreign 
aid  and  representative  like  himself  to  give  him  warning, 
so  that  he  might  be  clear  of  the  ground  before  the  explo- 
sion occurred,  and  thus  be  free  to  continue  and  extend  his 
own  career  of  usefulness. 

For  the  present  at  least  it  was  decided  that  work  should 
cease,  and  that  every  possible  precaution  should  be  taken 
until  such  time  as  the  vigilance  of  the  police  should  be  set 
to  sleep  again.  The  ruffian  origin  of  the  society's  alarms 
snored  like  a  hog  throughout  the  latter  part  of  the  discus- 
sion, but  being  awakened,  and  being  reminded  tbat  his 
fellow-guests  were  leaving,  insisted  on  departing  by  the 
front  door.  "  Parceque  je  suis  Collectiviste,  vois-tu,  et 
connais  ni  Dieu  ni  maitre."  He  attached  himself  to  his 
comrade  Dusaulx,  and  sang  a  ribald  version  of  the  "  Mar- 
seillaise," until  the  cool  air  of  the  outer  night  brought  an 
exposition  of  sleep  upon  him,  and  he  was  left  alone. 

Evan,  of  his  own  will,  had  taken  a  seat  near  to  the 
despondent  Lebon.  He  was  inclined  to  be  more  than  a 
little  sick  of  the  whole  business.  To  make  stern  war 
against  authority  was  one  thing,  and  to  prepare  weapons 
of  destruction  to  place  in  the  hands  of  irresponsible  and 
bloodthirsty  idiots  was  another.  He  ventured  to  say  as 
much  to  Lebon  as  they  came  upon  the  street  together. 

"  You  are  my  collaborator,  n'est  pas  ? "  said  Lebon. 
"  It  is  cruel  to  be  so  used.  I  am  sick  of  it  altogether.  Do 
yon  mark  me,  comrade  ?  There  is  as  much  to  regret  in  the 
doings  of  our  own  body  as  in  the  working  of  the  world 
outside.  Every  thing  is  cruel,  every  thing  is  wrong.  We 
shall  never  mend  it.  But,  thank  God,  there  is  a  grave  in 
front  of  every-body." 

"  Our  venerable  comrade,"  said  Evan,  walking  by  the 
14 


210 


man's  side,  "  tells  rae  you  have  a  quarrel  with  an  old  friend 
of  mine."  From  end  to  end  the  road,  so  far  as  it  could  be 
seen,  was  silent  and  deserted,  and  the  two,  though  they 
spoke  by  instinct  in  a  low  and  guarded  fashion,  were  in  no 
danger  of  being  observed  or  overheard. 

"  I  know  whom  you  mean,"  Lebon  answered.  "  You  and 
I  have  not  met  before,  but  I  have  learned  all  about  you. 
Look  you,"  he  added,  abruptly  laying  a  heavy  hand  upon 
Evan's  shoulder.  "  These  aristocrats  are  the  devil  for  in- 
gratitude and  heartlessness.     Are  you  walking  my  way  ?  " 

"  All  ways  are  the  same  to  me  for  an  hour  or  two,"  Evan 
answered. 

"  If  you  will  come  to  my  house,"  said  the  brass-founder, 
"  I  Avill  show  you  the  woman  who  for  two  years  was  a 
mother  to  your  friend.  He  and  I  were  born  in  the  same 
montli,  and  nursed  at  the  same  breast.  He  is  an  aristocrat 
and  I  am  an  ouvrier,  but  if  he  were  a  man,  there  ought  to 
have  been  something  like  a  bond  between  us.  You  would 
have  thought  he  would  have  cared  for  the  old  mother. 
You  would  think  that  any  thing  but  a  beast  would  remem- 
ber the  breasts  that  suckled  him." 

Evan's  political  beliefs,  profound  and  irrevocable  as  they 
were,  left  room  in  him  for  a  saving  grain  of  honest}'  with 
respect  to  the  characters  of  people  who  took  the  other 
side. 

"  That  is  the  last  thing,"  he  said,  "  I  should  ever  have 
exjiected  to  hear  about  him." 

"  It  is  true,  all  the  same,"  Lebon  retorted.  "  A  year  ago 
I  broke  an  arm.  We  had  had  sickness  in  the  house,  and 
were  desperately  poor  already.  .  Then  came  this  disaster, 
and  but  for  the  help  of  the  neighbors  there  would  have 
been  no  bread  to  eat.  Then  said  my  mother,  *  I  will  write 
to  my  child.  I  have  left  him  alone  these  forty  j^ears,  but 
he  cannot  have  forgotten.'  She  wrote  once,  twice,  and 
thrice,  and  he  sent  no  answer.     I  went  myself  to  that  great 


211 


house  of  his  on  the  Quai  d'Orsai,  and  his  lackeys, — there 
were  two  of  them, — drove  me  from  the  door.  That  day, 
my  comrade,  I  turned  against  God  !  " 

Evan  was  always  prepared  to  join  in  a  general  denuncia- 
tion of  the  wicked  aristocracy,  but  it  was  barely  just  to 
allow  the  man  whose  generosity  for  fourteen  years  had 
clothed  and  fed  him  to  be  assailed  on  such  a  ground  as 
this. 

"  I  know  the  man  well,"  he  answered,  "  and  what  you 
tell  me  is  impossible." 

"It  happened,"  said  the  brass-founder  curtly. 

"Then,"  said  Evan,  "  it  happened  without  his  knowledge. 
The  letters  have  been  throAvn  aside  by  his  secretary,  and 
have  never  reached  him.  He  was  a  man  of  the  people 
once,  and  he  has  changed  and  fallen  away  from  all  his 
promises.  But  for  generosity  he  has  no  equal.  If  all  men 
of  his  order  were  like  him,  it  would  be  a  pit}",  for  they 
would  be  beloved  by  the  common  people  everywhere,  and 
the  reign  of  inequality  might  be  eternal." 

"  I  bother  my  head  very  little  about  those  things,"  said 
the  workman,  in  his  moaning  voice.  "  This  I  know  :  that 
we  drank  the  same  milk  from  the  same  breast,  and  he  left 
me  to  misery.  He  had  not  even  a  word  to  throw  at  the 
poor  old  mother.  It  is  abominable,  my  friend.  It  is  only 
an  animal  of  an  aristocrat  who  could  behave  so." 

"  You're  wrong,"  said  Evan.  "  I've  known  him  almost 
ever  since  I  could  remember.  It  is  no  part  of  my  business 
to  fight  his  battles.  He  is  one  of  the  few  with  whom  the 
faults  of  his  class  are  misfortunes,  but  his  virtues  are  his 
own.  It  is  easy  to  be  generous  when  generosity  costs 
nothing,  but  at  least  his  purse  is  always  open." 

"It  was  closed  to  me,"  said  the  brass-founder.  "It 
was  closed  to  his  own  foster-mother.  I  am  Avhat  I  am 
because  of  him.  I  have  turned  against  God,  and  I  am  an 
enemy  to  mankind  !  " 


212 


Personally,  Evan  thought  he  was  not  likely  to  be  formi- 
dable, though  in  the  hands  of  the  society  he  became  a 
force  by  virtue  of  his  trade. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Evan,  "  what  I  will  do.  I  will 
write  to  him  myself  before  I  sleep,  and  I  will  guarantee 
that  the  old  mother  shall  want  no  more." 

"  What !  "  cried  the  man,  turning  on  him  with  distended 
eyes.  "Appeal  again  to  that  abominable!  Never,  never 
in  life."  Evan  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  silence,  but 
resolved  to  write,  all  the  same.  So  long  as  people  of 
wealth  existed,  it  was  but  just  that  they  should  be 
exploited  for  the  benefit  of  their  poorer  brethren.  "  If 
you  will  do  me  the  favor  to  step  out  this  waj^  for  a  few 
hundred  yards,  you  shall  see  my  bouse  and  the  mother. 
It  makes  me  angrj'^,"  the  man  continued,  "but  she  will 
be  glad  of  a  word  with  any  body  who  has  known  him. 
Women  are  queer  creatures,  and  she  will  listen  to  no  word 
against  him,  though  he  has  deserted  her.  She  is  proud  of 
having  suckled  an  aristocrat,  and  she  loves  him  as  if  her  own 
body  had  borne  him.  You  see,  my  friend,  she  is  a  woman 
of  the  people,  ignorant,  and  used  to  being  trodden  upon." 

They  had  turned  abruptlj^  to  one  side,  and  now  paused 
among  a  crowd  of  mean  tenements,  in  front  of  one 
which  stood  a  little  back  from  its  neighbors,  in  a  small 
and  frowsy  field.  In  a  smaller  building  than  the  house 
itself,  which  stood  on  one  side  to  the  rear,  a  furnace  was 
glowing,  and  the  figure  of  a  lad  lounging  against  the 
door-janib  in  shirt-sleeves  and  apron  was  silhouetted 
against  the  glare. 

"  This  is  my  house,"  said  the  workman.  "If  you  will 
give  yourself  the  trouble  to  enter,  I  can  offer  3'ou  a  glass 
of  little  blue  and  a  crust.  The  old  mother  will  be  glad  of 
a  word  about  him." 

As  he  was  speaking  there  was  heard  the  sound  of  tramp- 
ing of  horses  and  rolling  of  wheels,  and  up  came  a  mag- 


213 


nificeiit  equipage.  Evan  stared  in  amazement,  and  hailed 
the  coachman,  who  brought  the  horses  to  a  halt  at  his  feet. 

"  Hullo,  Victoire  !  What  on  earth  brings  you  in  this 
part  of  the  world  ?  " 

"Bon  soir,  M.  Rhys,"  said  the  coachman,  touching  the 
brim  of  his  hat  with  a  white-gloved  fore-finger.  "  His 
Excellency  is  within  doors." 

"Here?"  said  Evan,  indicating  the  house. 

"  Here,  monsieur,"  the  coachman  responded. 

The  brass-founder  stared  like  a  man  w^ho  had  received 
a  blow. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  "  he  said.  "  Let  us  go 
in." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Lebon  entered  the  house,  pushing  Evan  gently  before 
him,  Tlie  outer  door  opened  immediately  upon  the  living- 
room,  which  was  scrupulously  clean  and  orderly.  A  cheap 
lamp  burned  upon  the  table  in  the  centre,  and  beside  the 
table  sat  a  very  clean  and  alert  old  lady  in  the  attire  of 
fifty  years  ago.  She  had  a  tight,  sparse  band  of  silver  hair 
on  either  side  of  her  venerable  forehead,  which  was  ridged 
with  wrinkles  like  a  ploughed  field,  and  her  bright  and 
friendly  old  eyes  shone  with  all  the  brilliance  of  youth, 
though  her  fallen  cheeks  were  of  parchment,  and  her  lips 
drawn  close  to  the  toothless  gums.  She  had  a  downy  little 
grey  mustache  and  beetling  eyebrows,  and  she  was 
smiling  with  a  look  of  contentment  and  happiness  so  com- 
plete that  Evan's  heart  was  quite  melted  at  the  first  sight 
of  her.  By  her  side,  and  holding  one  withered  old  hand 
in  his  own,  sat  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel.  There  was  a 
very  fine  and  delicate  odor  in  the  air,  and  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  guess  that  this  emanated  from  a  tall,  slender  flask, 
the  label  on  which  was  obscured  by  the  gathered  dust  of 
many  years.  His  Excellenc}^  and  his  foster-mother  had 
apparently  been  drinking  to  each  other's  health  in  the  rare 
vintage  which  scented  so  divinel}'-,  for  two  glasses  which 
stood  upon  the  snow-white  table-cloth  still  held  traces  of 
wine.  In  one  confer  of  the  room  was  a  hamper,  the  lid  of 
which,  being  thrown  open,  revealed  the  necks  of  a  number 
of  bottles  and  a  quantit}^  of  packages,  of  various  forms  and 
sizes,  done  up  neatly  in  gray  paper. 

Lebon  paused,  arrested,  on  the  threshold,  and  looked  at 
the  scene  before  him  open-mouthed. 

"  Aha  !  "  said  the  old  lady,  "  you  are  home  at  last,  my 

214 


215 


son.  This  is  my  Henri,  mon  clier."  The  duke  rose  and 
turned  to  his  foster-brother,  stretching  out  a  hand  to  him. 
The  action  was  so  full  of  friendliness,  so  graceful,  and 
apparently  so  spontaneous  that  the  founder  of  bombs,  not 
without  a  later  sense  of  amazement,  put  out  his  own 
horned  fist  to  meet  it,  and  the  two  stood  for  an  instant 
hand  in  hand  looking  at  each  other.  The  nobleman  was 
evidently  attired  for  some  great  function,  for  he  wore  a 
broad  ribbon  of  green  silk  across  his  shirt-front,  and  the 
left  lapel  of  his  coat  sparkled  with  orders.  The  workman 
was  in  his  every-day  attire  of  cap  and  blouse,  and  the  con- 
trast between  the  two  was  striking.  "  Eh  !  "  said  the  old 
woman.  "  How  long  is  it  since  you  two  stood  in  the  same 
room  together  ?  " 

Lebon  dropped  the  duke's  hand,  and,  drawing  up  a  chair, 
which  grated  noisily  on  the  unclothed  brick  floor,  sat 
down. 

"  We  should  be  better  acquainted,"  said  the  duke.  "  It 
is  more  than  twenty  years  since  I  saw  you  last,  and,  ray 
faith,  my  friend,  your  mother's  milk  seems  to  have  agreed 
with  you  less  than  it  has  with  me." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  old  lady,  wagging  her  head  with  supreme 
satisfaction,  "  I  told  you  he  would  come,  if  he  did  but 
know  where  to  find  us.  He  has  learned  only  to-night  by 
chance,  and  has  come  at  once  to  see  me."  The  good  soul 
was  inflated  with  pride  and  affection  unutterable,  but 
Lebon's  mask  of  feeble  despair  had  hardened  into  a  scowl, 
and  he  glared  at  the  visitor  as  if  he  would  willingly  have 
killed  him  where  he  sat. 

The  duke  had  recognized  Evan  at  his  entrance  by  a  mere 
smile,  and  the  faintest  elevation  of  the  eyebrows. 

"How  comes  it,"  he  asked,  "  that  I  never  heard  from 
you  of  your  acquaintance  liere  ?  Tliis,"  he  added,  laying 
an  affectionate  hand  on  the  crisp  white  cap  of  the  crisp  old 
lady  beside  him,  "  is  my  foster-mother." 


216 


"  We  have  not  met  before,"  said  Evan,  speaking  stiffly 
and  with  reluctance.  He  felt  as  if  there  were  a  burden  of 
ingratitude  upon  him,  and  as  if  he  somehow  misused  the 
duke's  past  generosity  in  refusing  his  present  help.  His 
intellect  rose  in  protest  against  that  assumption,  but  the 
feeling  was  there,  and  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"  My  old  nurse,"  said  the  duke  caressingh^  "  will  pro- 
cure for  us  two  other  glasses,  and  we  will  drink  to  this 
encounter." 

The  old  lady  arose,  full  of  sedate  pride,  and  walked  to 
a  cupboard,  from  Avhich  she  returned  with  a  cheap  and 
common  tumbler  in  either  hand.  She  set  them  on  the 
table,  and  the  duke  emptied  the  bottle,  distributing  its  con- 
tents into  the  four  glasses.  Lebon  sat  glowering  at  him  as 
if  fascinated,  but  when  his  Excellency  proffered  him  one  of 
the  tumblers,  he  rose  abruptly  and  clutched  it  with  a 
gesture  so  savage  as  to  spill  one-half  of  its  contents. 

"Confusion  to  all  aristocrats  !"  he  said,  and  with  this 
sentiment  he  tossed  off  what  remained  of  the  wine,  and 
flung  the  glass  through  the  open  door-way.  It  broke  upon 
the  rough  pavement  outside  with  a  crash,  and  the  high- 
bred horses,  nervous  in  proportion  to  the  fineness  of  their 
breeding,  set  off  with  a  rush,  and  were  not  controlled  until 
they  had  traversed  a  hundred  yards  or  so. 

"  Shame  on  you  !  "  clamored  Mme.  Lebon.  "  Is  that 
how  you  treat  j^our  foster-brother  after  a  score  of  years?  " 

"  If  my  foster-brother  had  come  when  he  was  wanted," 
the  man  answered,  breathing  short  and  hard,  like  one  who 
had  just  finished  a  race — "  if  my  foster-brother  had  come 
when  he  was  wanted,  I  might  have  had  another  welcome 
for  him.  We  have  been  poor,  M.  le  Due,  but  we  have  our 
own  pride.  We  humbled  ourselves  to  write  to  you  three 
times,  and  your  servants  turned  me  from  your  door." 

"My  dear  friend,"  cried  the  duke  cordiall}--,  "I  am 
sorry  for-it, — I  am  profoundly  sorry, — but  I  received  none 


217 


of  your  letters,  and  until  now  Inevei^  heard  of  your  Laving 
called  upon  me.  Had  I  known  of  it,  you  should  have 
been  made  welcome.  I  am  a  forgetful  fellow,  and  with 
me  out  of  sight  was  always  out  of  mind.  When  I  was 
young  and  irresponsible,  I  had,  as  you  may  remember, 
some  share  in  the  opinions  of  my  young  friend  here.  I 
paid  for  it,  as  you  may  be  able  to  recall,  by  an  enforced 
visit  to  New  Caledonia.  When  I  came  back,  after  the 
lapse  of  half  a  dozen  years,  a  good  many  of  my  old  friends 
had  disappeared,  and  you  among  them.  Come,  my  good 
friend,  is  it  worth  while  to  be  angry  ?  " 

He  held  out  his  hand  again,  but  this  time  Lebon  was 
not  to  be  taken  by  surprise.  He  resolutely  refused  to  sur- 
render his  own,  and  plunged  both  clenched  fists  into  the 
pockets  of  his  trousers.  The  old  woman  ran  round  the 
table  and  tugged  at  one  arm,  but  he  resisted  her  in  a  surly 
quiet. 

"  If  you  choose  to  be  unreasonable,"  said  the  amiable 
nobleman,  with  imperturbable  good-humor,  "I  cannot  help 
it.  At  least  you  and  I,  vieille  nourrice,  are  going  to  be 
once  more  the  best  of  friends." 

"  Ah,  but  yes,"  said  the  little  old  woman,  clinging  to 
him  with  both  shaking  wrinkled  hands.  "  It  was  never 
in  your  heart  to  leave  us.  We  have  had  hard  times,  but 
God  has  been  good,  and  has  brought  you  back  at  last," 

"Ell,  bien,  ma  mere,"  said  the  duke,  stooping  to  kiss 
her  wrinkled  forehead,  "I  am  sorry  for  the  hard  times, 
but  the}'-  shall  come  no  more.     Good-night,  Henri," 

But  Henri  was  not  to  be  conquered.  His  mother  cried 
shame  upon  him,  but  he  kept  his  sulky  demeanor  to  the 
last, 

"  Are  you  staying  here,  Evan  ?  "  the  duke  asked,  "  or 
can  I  drop  you  at  your  lodgings,     I  drive  that  way." 

"  I  thank  you  very  much,  sir,"  Evan  answered  gravely, 
"but  I  am  staying  here  for  a  little  while."  • 


318 


"  Good-niglit,"  said  the  duke  again,  and  so  stepped  into 
his  carnage,  and  was  driven  away. 

"Oh,  Henri,  Henri,"  said  the  old  woman,  shaking  a 
reproaclif  111  head  at  her  son,  "  how  have  you  behaved  ? 
Tliou  didst  not  know  of  this,"  and  she  took  from  her  dress 
pocket  under  her  tidy  little  white  aj^rOn  a  battered  old 
porte-monnaie  which  she  held  up  tremulously  before  him. 
"Is  he  generous  ?"  she  asked,  Avith  tlie  tears  trickling  in 
her  black  eyes.  "  Is  he  good  ?  Has  he  a  heart  in  a  thou- 
sand?" Her  fingers  shook  so  much  that  she  could  hardly 
unfasten  the  hasp  of  the  purse,  but  by  and  by  she  suc- 
ceeded, and  drew  from  it  in  a  weeping  triumph  a  bank- 
note for  five  hundred  francs.  She  held  out  the  note  in  one 
hand  and  the  purse  in  the  other,  the  tears  running  down 
her  face  meanwhile.  She  kissed  the  note  over  and  over 
again,  and  at  last  dropped  upon  her  knees,  calling  upon 
the  Virgin  and  all  the  saints  to  bless  her  benefactor.  She 
was  of  Provence,  as  her  marked  accent,  the  deep  jet  of 
her  eyes,  and  the  tawn}^  brown  of  her  skin  declared,  and 
she  surrendered  herself  to  this  passion  of  gratitude  and 
emotion  as  Avillingly  as  a  savage  or  a  child.  She  would 
not  rest  satisfied  until  Lebon  had  examined  the  note  and 
had  pronounced  it  to  be  real. 

"  Real !  "  she  cried  then,  bouncing  to  her  feet,  and 
snatching  the  note  from  him  in  a  sudden  rage  of  another 
sort.  "Is  he  a  forger  of  bank-notes,  then,  the' i:)roudest 
gentleman  in  France?  And  the  richest  and  the  hand- 
somest, and  the  boy  I  nursed  at  my  bosom  ?  And  one 
would  think  that  it  made  you  unhapp}^  to  know  that  your 
old  motlier  Avas  free  of  care  for  the  rest  of  her  life." 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  "  I  am  glad  of  that — right  glad  of 
that  for  thy  sake." 

"  This  is  my  son,  young  man,"  said  the  old  lady,  address- 
ing Evan  for  the  first  time.  "For  months  past  he  has 
done  notfcinj;   but   rave   against   all  aristocrats.     He    has 


219 


cursed  his  own  foster-brother  a  thousand  times,  and  even 
now  he  liasn't  a  word  of  thanks  for  his  kindness.  I  tell 
him  it  is  a  good  thing  for  a  man  to  remember  his  place, 
and  not  to  speak  evil  of  dignities.  In  my  young  days 
poor  people  respected  their  masters,  and  those  in  authority 
over  them,  but  now  with  half  the  poor  it  is  neither  God 
nor  master.  They  are  atheists,  and  they  hate  the  people 
whose  bread  they  eat." 

The  excellent  Rhenish,  whose  potency  the  old  lady 
probably  undervalued,  had  loosened  her  tongue,  and  she 
galloped  away  at  a  great  rate,  discoursing  on  the  superior- 
ity of  former  days  over  these  republican  times,  and  exalt- 
ing the  splendors  of  the  old  Coratesse  de  Montmeillard, 
Lebon  arose  at  last  with  a  somewhat  better  grace  than  he 
had  hitherto  shown,  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

"  I  am  glad  thou  art  happ}^,  my  mother,"  he  said,  with 
a  rather  uncertain  voice.  "Get  tliee  to  bed  and  dream  of 
thy  two  sons,  and  think  they  both  love  thee  as  well  as  one 
of  them  does." 

Then,  with  a  nod  of  invitation  to  Evan,  he  left  the  house 
and  made  his  way  to  the  small  foundry  at  the  reai".  Here 
he  dismissed  his  apprentice,  who  seemed  to  have  no  other 
occupation  than  that  of  feeding  the  furnace  fire. 

"  When  my  mother  has  gone  to  bed,  we  can  go  back  to 
the  house,"  he  said,  "  and  have  our  crust  and  our  glass  of 
wine  in  peace.  Meantime  I  may  as  well  see  if  my  mould 
is  ready  for  to-night's  casting.  No,  nor  will  be,"  he  cried 
angrily;  "the  stupid  lout  has  moistened  it  again.  He 
will  be  the  death  of  me  one  of  these  days.  Look  you,"  he 
called  to  Evan.  "You  see  this  great  iron  frame,  and  this 
other  which  fits  it  with  a  hinge."  He  closed  tlie  ponderous 
lid  carefully.  "You  lock  it  with  a  bolt,"  he  explained  in 
his  own  slow  and  cumbrous  waj^,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word  in  illustration.  "  Your  molten  metal  comes  in  through 
here,  and  then  if  your  sand  is  wet  no  anarchist  ever  made 


220 


a  bomb  to  do  half  the  mischief.  I  have  stood  at  the  other 
end  of  a  workshop  and  seen  a  man  blown  to  pieces.  I  was 
twenty  paces  away,  and  a  piece  of  iron  as  big  as  my  fist 
passed  me  by  a  band's  breadth  and  killed  the  man  behind 
me.  I  helped  to  pick  up  the  pieces,"  he  went  on.  "It 
was  an  easy  death,  I  should  think.  Eh  ?  You  would  think 
it  an  easy  death,  wouldn't  you  ?  I  have  wondered  often. 
I  have  had  half  a  mind  to  try  it,  many  a  time,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  old  mother.  She  is  a  good  creature,  the 
old  mother.  She  scolds  sometimes,  as  you  heard  just  now, 
but  what  does  a  man  care  about  a  woman's  tongue  ?  "  He 
drew  away  the  bolt,  and  raised  the  ponderous  lid  again, 
his  speech  rumbling  and  grumbling  meanwhile  like  flow- 
ing water  in  a  cavern.  "  Mon  Dieu,  but  you  are  right 
about  our  aristocrat.  C'est  un  beau  gars,  9a.  It  was  no 
fault  of  his.  I  begin  to  think  I  have  been  a  fool  in  curs- 
ing him.  Why  should  I  make  shells  for  bombs  to  blow 
up  the  bourgeoisie  ?  It  is  a  dangerous  game,  that,  my 
lad."  He  turned  his  lugubrious  countenance  on  Evan, 
and  nodded  his  head  in  a  series  of  little  jerks,  as  if  to  say  : 
Consider  that,  and  mark  well  its  source.  "  I  begin  to  think 
I  have  been  a  fool  in  more  ways  than  one.  Anyhow,  the 
old  mother's  cabbages  are  fat  now.  What  have  I  to  growl 
about  ?     These  plots  are  nothing  to  me." 

The  workshop  was  illuminated  only  by  the  dim  glow  of 
the  furnace  fire,  and  by  a  stump  of  candle  which  adhered 
by  its  own  grease  to  a  disk  of  tin,  to  which  was  attached  a 
long  handle  of  the  same  metal.  Tlie  man,  looking  Evan 
very  steadily  in  the  face,  took  up  this  odd  candlestick,  and 
then  set  out  across  the  shop.  He  made  his  way  to  one 
corner,  where  a  number  of  massive  odds  and  ends  of  metal 
lay  in  a  heap  against  the  wall.  These  he  removed  one  by 
one,  groping  for  thcin  alternately  Avith  either  hand,  and 
meanwhile  keeping  his  ej^es  fixed  on  Evan's  face.  This 
persistent  regard  drew  the  young  man  across  the  room  to 


221 


watch  more  closely,  and,  if  he  could,  to  divine  the  mean- 
ing of  his  companion's  movements. 

When  all  the  incumbrances  were  removed  from  the 
corner,  Lebon  took  up  a  loose  fragment  of  board,  and 
revealed  a  hole  in  the  floor.  He  had  scarce  done  this 
when  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  barred  both  the  door  and 
the  heavy  wooden  shutter  of  the  single  window. 

"I  was  mad  to  forget  that,"  he  muttered,  as  he  went 
back  to  his  corner.  He  knelt  down  again  and  drew  from 
the  recess  a  small  box,  such  as  is  commonly  used  by 
moulders  in  his  trade.  He  opened  this,  and  showed  it  to 
Evan.  Its  purpose  was  obvious  at  a  glance.  It  could  be 
used  for  the  casting  of  a  hand  grenade  a  little  larger  than 
an  orange.  Lebon  carried  it  to  the  end  of  the  bench 
beneath  the  window,  and  there,  reversing  it,  quietly  beat 
out  the  firm  sand,  which  fell  in  pieces  like  an  extremely 
friable  sandstone. 

"No  more  of  that,"  he  said  almost  joyously.  A  third 
time  he  went  to  his  corner,  and,  once  more  kneeling  there, 
brought  out  a  series  of  hollow  copper  balls,  which  jingled 
musically  together  as  he  handled  them.  When  he  had 
groped  in  every  corner  of  the  hiding-place  and  had  brought 
out  all  its  contents,  he  replaced  the  board,  and  once  more 
concealed  the  aperture  with  the  massive  odds  and  ends  of 
metal. 

Evan  watched  him  without  a  word,  thinking  how  nat- 
ural the  man's  apostasy  was  in  the  circumstances,  and  con- 
jecturing the  simple  working  of  his  mind.  Lebon  gathered 
into  the  skirt  of  his  blouse  all  the  clinking,  hollow  balls,  a 
dozen,  perhaps,  in  number,  and,  folding  the  linen  into  a  knot 
in  one  hand,  seized  an  iron  hook  in  the  other,  and  drew 
away  the  cover  of  his  melting-pot.  The  metal,  with  a 
coaly  scum  upon  its  surface,  gleamed  dusky  red,  and  into 
it,  one  by  one,  the  apostate  from  anarchy  dropped  all 
his   implements   of    destruction.     Then   he    covered    the 


222 


melting-pot  again,  sat  down  upon  tlie  bench,  and  filled  his 
pipe. 

"If  tLey  want  more  bombs,"  be  said  placidly,  "they 
can  go  to  the  devil  for  them.  The  old  mother  is  happ3\ 
Why  should  I  put  my  neck  under  the  knife  ?  " 

"  Your  principles  do  not  appear  to  have  been  too  deeply 
rooted,"  said  Evan. 

"  Wh}^,"  returned  Lebon,  "  I  hate  a  man  who  does  me  a 
bad  turn,  but  I  can't  quarrel  with  a  man  who  does  me  a 
good  one." 

"  You  had  no  quarrel  with  society?"  asked  Evan. 

"  Not  I." 

"Only  wuth  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel  ?" 

"  Nobody  else  in  the  world,"  Lebon  replied,  pulling  at 
his  pipe.  "You  see,  I  thought  these  fellows  were  all  alike, 
and  now  I  find  that,  after  all,  there's  a  bit  of  human  feeling. 
As  for  that  game," — jerking  a  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the 
melting-pot, — "  I  never  liked  it,  when  I  came  to  think  of 
it,  and  now  it's  done  with  ;  I  shall  risk  my  head  no  more." 

"Suppose  the  society  should  refuse  to  allow  j'ou  to 
resign  j^our  post,"  asked  Evan,  "  what  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

"Nomme  d'une  pipe  !  "  Lebon  cried,  with  a  shrug  of  his 
heavy  shoulders.  "  I  am  a  free  man,  I  suppose.  We  live 
in  a  free  countr}^     A  man  can  do  as  he  pleases." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  you  will  find  it  so,"  Evan  said,  with 
great  seriousness.  He  had  thought  this  question  over  in 
his  own  case  pretty  closeh',  and  he  saw  that,  so  long  as 
his  companions  demanded  his  adhesion,  there  was  no  way 
of  escape  from  the  jilcdges  given.  He  had  had  no  wish  to 
escape,  but  he  had  looked  the  whole  matter  full  in  the  face 
and  recognized  his  own  position. 

Lebon  was  silent  until  he  had  finished  his  l^ipe,  when  he 
knocked  out  its  ashes  on  his  heol  and  jmt  it  in  liis  i)ocket. 

"  And  besides  all  that,"  he  said,  pursuing  the  current  of 


223 


his  own  thoughts,  wliatever  the}"  may  have  been — "and 
besides  all  tliat,  I  shall  never  feel  comfortable  about  this 
day's  work.  That  blackguard  Ducos  would  never  have 
found  the  means  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  and  me.  Did  I 
tell  you  that  I  saw  the  fellow  ?  " 

"  What  fellow  ?  " 

"The  waiter  at  the  Gigot  de  Mouton,  in  the  Rue  Tim- 
bale.     Did  I  tell  you  I  saw  him  after  the  explosion  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Evan  with  a  shudder,  which  he  could  not 
have  repressed  to  save  his  life. 

"  It  was  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  the 
bomb  had  been  thrown,"  said  Lebon.  "  I  heard  what  had 
happened  just  as  I  was  passing  the  corner  of  the  street. 
There  was  a  tremendous  crowd  there,  and  the  police 
were  wheeling  the  poor  devil  through  it.  A  woman  came 
out  with  a  clean  sheet,  and  '  For  the  sake  of  Heaven  and 
all  the  saints,'  said  she,  '  cover  him  up.'  They  put  the 
sheet  over  him,  and  it  mopped  the  blood  up  like  a  sponge 
in  a  second.  Thei'e  were  patches  as  big  as  both  my  hands 
in  half  a  dozen  places  before  they  wheeled  him  on  again." 

The  man,  with  perfectly  unconscious  brutality  of  phrase, 
went  into  detail  as  to  the  condition  of  this  injured  wretch's 
body  before  it  was  hidden  from  sight.  He  had  seen,  and 
he  told  what  he  had  seen  with  a  ghastly  simplicity  and 
directness.  Men  of  his  breeding  do  not  paraphrase  ;  they 
use  plain  words. 

The  scene  was  vividly  and  horribly  present  to  the 
younger  man's  imagination.  He  put  both  hands  before 
his  face  and   groaned  aloud. 

"Eh,bicn!"  said  the  convert.  "That  is  what  you  and  I 
have  been  doing." 

"  I  wash  my  hands,"  said  Evan,  "  of  this  hideous  assassi- 
nation." 

"It  will  be  a  long  time,"  Lebon  retorted,  "before  the 
poor  devil   will   wash   his  hands  of  your  powder.     They 


224 


were  both  black  with  it.  The}'^  had  no  shape  in  them. 
They  looked  like  over-roasted  pork," 

Evan,  with  a  cry  in  which  hori'or  and  pity  and  remorse 
were  blended,  rushed  toward  the  door,  hurled  the  wooden 
bar  aside,  and  staggered  into  the  open  air.  Lebon  called 
after  him,  but  he  did  not  even  hear. 

The  early  summer  night  was  beautifully  tranquil.  The 
air  was  sweet,  as  one  finds  it  sometimes  in  great  cities,  as 
if  a  broad,  slow  gust  of  countr}-  odor  had  been  drawn  into 
the  streets. 

In  the  wide  avenue  there  were  sober  revellers  seated  in 
front  of  small  cafes,  over  their  cigarettes  and  pipes,  their 
coffee  and  sugared  water,  and  more  than  once  as  the  young 
man  walked,  hard-eyed  and  pale  of  cheek,  along  the  cause- 
way his  ear  caught  a  word  or  two  which  told  him  with 
unmistakable  clearness  what  Avas  the  one  universal  topic  of 
the  hour.  It  chilled  him  to  the  heart  to  think  that,  had 
the  members  of  any  one  group  known  him  for  what  he  was, 
tliey  would  have  rent  him  limb  from  limb.  He  was  no 
coward,  and  it  was  no  fear  that  chilled  him.  It  was 
rather  the  monition  of  a  certain  still  small  voice  within 
himself  which  told  him  that  the  rage  and  loathing  of  the 
mob  would  have  been  natural,  just.  All  his  mind  clamored 
in  rebellion  against  the  verdict  of  his  heart,  but  the  ver- 
dict repeated  itself  inexorably. 

There  Avas  no  making  war  with  rose-water.  There  Avas 
no  making  of  omelettes  Avithout  breaking  of  eggs.  This 
affair  of  the  Avaiter  Avas  a  small  disaster  in  a  great  cam- 
paign. One  innocent  non-combatant  had  suffered.  IIoav 
many  innocent  non-combatants — how  mau}^  millions — had 
suffered  in  the  shameless  and  shameful  Avars  Avhich  had 
been  thrust  upon  the  Avorld  by  its  tyrants,  its  conquerors, 
its  brilliant  statesmen,  and  the  abandoned  Avomen  of  the 
courts  ! 

It  was  war  against  Avar  that  he  had  declared  in  his  OAvn 


225 


heart, — war  against  all  forms  of  tyranny  and  oppression, — 
and  victory  meant  the  end  of  unnecessary  human  pain. 

He  had  found  these  reflections  very  tonic  and  inspiring 
before  now,  but  under  the  stars  and  along  the  quiet  streets 
he  was  haunted  by  the  figure  of  a  man  on  a  wheeled 
stretcher,  and  his  brain  made  a  picture  in  which  every 
abominable  detail  Lebon  had  given  him  was  as  clearly  seen 
as  if  the  injured  man  had  been  there  bodily  before  him  in 
broad  daylight. 


15 


CHAPTER  IX 

In  these  fast-rolling  times  no  event  seems  capable  of 
holding  the  public  attention  even  for  the  nine  clays  of  the 
proverb.  The  waiter  at  the  cafe  in  the  Rue  Timbale  died 
in  hospital,  an  inquest  was  held  upon  him,  a  verdict 
found,  the  man  was  buried,  and  there  an  end.  There 
yas  not  a  capital  city  or  a  village  in  the  whole  civilized 
world  in  which  the  unfortunate  creature's  name  had  not 
been  bruited  to  and  fro.  But  in  half  a  week  it  needed  an 
effort  in  most  men's  minds  to  recognize  it. 

But,  though  the  world  forgot,  as  the  world  with  all  its 
manifold  forms  of  business  and  interest  is  compelled  to 
forget,  Evan  Rhys  remembered.  Lebon's  crude  and  gross 
picture  was  before  him  night  and  day.  He  sat  idle  in  his 
laboratory,  or  roamed  listlessly  about  the  streets,  comj^elled 
to  think,  and  striving  hard  against  the  compulsion.  He 
received  one  or  two  secret  messages  from  Petrovna.  The 
work  was  at  a  stand-still.  Why  were  not  more  bombs 
provided  ?  He  had  no  answer  for  the  messenger,  and  did 
no  work. 

It  was  full  summer,  and  the  brawling,  sparkling  human 
tide  flowed  gayly  as  ever  along  the  boulevards.  The 
tragedy  of  six  weeks  ago  was  buried  deep,  sunk  in  com- 
pletest  oblivion  ;  but  Evan  Rhys's  chemical  labors  were 
discontinued,  and  the  young  man  had  mighty  trouble  in 
convincing  himself  that  his  principles  were  unchanged, 
and  that  the  doctrines  on  which  he  had  acted  were  just  as 
irrefutable  as  before. 

He  was  sitting,  unkempt  and  disorderly,  in  his  own 
rooms  one  broiling  day,  when  Petrovna  made  a  call  upon 

326 


227 


him.  The  Russian  was  portentously  solemn.  Evan 
expected  him  to  break  out  in  reproach,  but  Petrovna  had 
no  word  to  say  in  that  direction.  There  was  a  great  cause, 
he  announced,  and  a  great  opportunity.  A  meeting  was 
to  be  held  that  night  at  the  house  of  Cadoudal,  and  certain 
arrangements  were  to  be  decided  upon  which  would  be  of 
vital  result  to  the  future  of  the  society,  perhajJS  of  vital 
effect  on  the  future  of  the  world, 

Evan's  presence  was  indispensable,  yet  somehow  Evan 
was  languid.  The  mysterious,  important  scheme  would 
have  fired  him  with  a  loose  enthusiasm  two  months  ago 
and  would  have  set  his  pulses  thrilling  with  curiosity. 
Petrovna  noted  the  change  in  him  clearly  enough,  but  for 
his  own  reasons  he  made  no  comment  on  it. 

"  Be  punctual  to  the  hour,"  he  said.  "  Our  business  will 
commence  at  ten  o'clock,  and  you  will  meet  there  the  whole 
executive  of  Paris." 

"Very  well,"  said  Evan  indifferently,  "I  will  be  there." 

He  would  not  confess  it  even  to  himself,  but  if  he  could 
have  escaped  from  the  position  in  which  he  had  placed 
himself,  he  would  have  given  his  right  hand  to  do  it.  The 
arguments  were  all  just  as  sound  as  ever,  the  world  was 
abominably  mismanaged  and  full  of  suffering.  The 
bourgeoisie  kotowed  to  the  nobles  and  trod  upon  the  poor. 
There  was  no  justice  in  human  law,  no  fair  distribution  of 
human  burdens  ;  it  was  all  wrong  together — incurably 
wrong,  unless  the  anarchic  reign  of  terror  could  bring 
about  a  change.  He  remembered  all  the  old  familiar  argu- 
ments, the  old  plausible,  lucid  instances,  which  had  once 
convinced  him,  and  they  carried  conviction  no  more. 

All  the  same,  he  was  summoned  to  witness  the  develop- 
ment of  the  new  movement  about  which  Petrovna  had 
striven  to  be  so  impressive,  and  he  would  go.  He  must  go. 
Tliere  was  no  help  for  it. 

He  kept  his  own  room  until   the  fall   of   evening,  and 


228 


then  dressed,  and  dined  at  tlie  sordid  little  restaurant  in 
his  own  neighborhood,  lie  sat  among  the  people  in  the 
pathway,  smoking  his  cigarette  and  sipj^ing  his  coffee  after 
dinner,  until  it  should  be  time  to  set  out.  The  evening 
was  exquisitely  cool  and  pleasant  after  the  heat  of  the  day, 
and  the  simple,  innocent,  harmless  folk  among  whom  he 
sat  enjoyed  themselves  in  a  simple,  innocent,  and  harmless 
mirth.  Respectable,  broadclotlied  people  who  kej^t  shop 
all  day  were  there  with  mothers  of  families,  fat  or 
meagre, — for  the  Frenchwoman  of  the  lower  middle  classes 
knows  no  mean, — and  spruce  clerks  were  polite  to  their 
fiancees  under  the  watchful  mother's  eye  ;  and  out  in  the 
roadway  a  number  of  children  danced  in  the  dust  to  the 
strains  of  a  steam-organ  in  a  big  beer-hall  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street. 

It  was  all  commonplace,  pure  commonplace,  and  at 
another  hour  he  might  have  been  scornful  of  it.  He 
seemed,  in  spite  of  himself,  to  find  little  reconciling  touches 
of  humanity  everywhere  about  the  crowd.  Theoretically, 
these  amiable  people  were,  of  course,  the  enemies  of  the 
world,  sunk  sluggishl}^  in  their  own  infinitesimal  affairs, 
and  presenting  a  log-like  resistance  to  all  thoughts  of 
social  advancement.  But  somehow  the  theory  did  not 
work  just  then.  His  heart  ached  bitterly,  and,  vacating 
his  place  among  them,  he  paid  his  little  reckoning,  and 
walked  away. 

The  twilight  sank  slowly  into  gloom,  and  the  lights  of 
the  cafes  and  the  street  lamps  grew  brighter.  The  ga}-" 
chattering  crowds  multiplied  and  grew  denser  as  he  strolled 
along,  and  he,  with  his  saturnine  face  and  downcast  heart, 
shouldering  his  wa}^  among  the  merry-makers,  seemed  to 
himself  as  if  he  were  the  only  man  with  a  care  in  the  world. 

He  lounged  along  with  no  otlier  aim  than  to  kill  time, 
and  made  an  aimless  point  in  arriving  at  Cadoudal's  door 
with  precise  punctuality.     When  he  was  ushered  into  the 


229 


study,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  business  had  already  begun, 
for  the  master  of  the  house  occupied  a  chair  at  the  head  of 
a  long  table,  and  guests  to  the  number  of  a  score  or  there- 
abouts were  drawn  up  about  it.  Lebon,  who  had  appar- 
ently entered  only  an  instant  before  him,  was  closing  the 
shutter  of  the  French  window,  and  Dusaulx  had  risen  to 
offer  him  a  chair. 

"  Now,"  said  the  president  on  Evan's  arrival,  "  we  may 
enter  upon  our  business.  I  will  not  waste  time  in  unneces- 
sary words.  There  is  no  man  here  who  is  not  mindful  of 
his  obligations.  There  is  no  man  here  Avho  is  not  aware, 
completely  aware,  of  the  inevitable  result  which  must  fol- 
low disobedience  or  recalcitrance.  The  inner  council  has 
decided  upon  a  most  momentous  and  important  line  of 
action.  What  that  line  of  action  is  it  will  be  my  duty  to 
explain  when  we  have  by  the  drawing  of  lots  decided  upon 
the  two  members  of  this  assembl}^  who  will  be  intrusted 
to  pursue  it.  I  call  upon  M,  Percheron  to  produce  tlie 
printed  list,  and  to  read  it  over.  Those  present  will  kindly 
answer  to  their  names." 

Whoever  else  felt  the  solemnity  and  importance  of  the 
occasion,  it  was  very  evident  it  was  impressed  very  deeply 
on  the  mind  of  M.  Paul  Cadoudal.  He  was  very  pale,  and 
he  was  forced  to  press  his  shapely  white  hands  upon  the 
table  to  prevent  them  from  trembling.  When  he  tried  to 
assume  his  accustomed  benevolent  smile  on  Evan's  entrance, 
he  looked  like  a  man  who  Avas  going  to  the  scaffold,  and 
who  tried  to  endure  that  ordeal  bravely. 

M.  Percheron,  a  gaunt  man  with  a  squint,  rose,  and  pro- 
duced from  a  breast-pocket  a  narrow  ribbon,  like  a  strip  of 
scarlet  paper.  He  read  from  this  strip  of  crimson  color  a 
list  of  names,  and  at  every  name  a  voice  answered.  Many 
of  the  voices  were  harsh  and  acrid,  as  if  they  came  from 
throats  constricted  by  strong  emotion.  Ducos  offered  his 
response  in  a  braggadocial  bellow. 


230 


When  all  the  names  were  called  and  answered  to,  the 
president  continued. 

"  The  list,"  he  said,  "  will  now  be  cut  into  strips  of  equal 
size.  Those  strips  will  be  folded,  will  be  placed  together, 
and  shaken  in  a  hat,  and  one  name  will  be  drawn.  Will 
our  friend  Rhys  act  as  croupier  ?" 

Evan  made  no  objection,  but  by  way  of  sole  sign  of 
assent  threw  his  hat  upon  the  table.  It  was  of  a  soft 
black  felt,  and  lie  had  sat  nursing  it,  and  crumpling  it  to  a 
ball  upon  his  knees. 

"  That  will  do  very  well,"  said  Cadoudal. 

Meanwhile  the  gaunt  man  with  the  squint  had  taken  a 
pair  of  scissors  from  the  table,  and  now  proceeded  with 
grave  deliberation  to  slice  each  name  separately  from  the 
printed  list.  Everj'-body  watched  him  as  if  fascinated. 
When  all  the  strips  were  cut,  he  folded  each  one  twice, 
until  it  assumed  the  form  of  a  little  scarlet  square  of  about 
an  inch  in  size.  Wlien  all  were  folded,  he  beckoned  for  the 
hat.  Evan  passed  it  to  him,  and  M.  Percheron  took  it  by 
the  rim  between  thumb  and  finger.  He  laid  the  liat  upon 
the  table  before  him,  manipulated  it  with  both  hands  for  a 
second,  and  then  dropped  in  lightl}'  the  crimson  squares. 
Tlie  silence  was  so  intense  that  every-bodj'  could  hear  the 
faint  rustle  they  made  in  falling.  Next,  M.  Percheron 
took  the  brim  of  the  hat  in  both  hands,  and,  drawing  its 
sides  closely  together,  swung  it  rapidly  to  and  fro.  He  had 
risen  from  his  seat  to  do  this,  and  now,  with  a  bow  to  the 
president,  lie  laid  tlie  fateful  hat  upon  the  table. 

"  Will  our  young  friend  Rhys  oblige  us,"  asked  Cad- 
oudal, "by  withdrawing  one  name,  and  one  name  only?" 

Evan  looked  round  tlie  table  and  saw  all  e^'es  bent  on 
him.  His  hands  underneath  the  table  quivered  like  aspen 
leaves,  and  he  hesitated  for  a  second  to  control  them  by  a 
resolute  will.  His  throat  was  harsh  and  dry,  as  if  he  were 
choked  with  ground  glass. 


231 


"Oblige  IIS,  if  you  please,"  said  Cadoiulal,  in  a  voice 
which  told  that  he  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot  like  a 
shaken  spring. 

Evan  obe3'ed,  and  the  president's  quivering  hand  was 
stretched  out  to  accept  the  scrap  of  paper.  He  unfolded 
it  with  obvious  difficulty  aiul  read  the  name. 

"Henri  Lebon." 

Lebon  had  sat  as  fascinated  as  the  rest,  with  his  usual 
lialf- weeping  look  fixed  upon  his  face.  But  at  the  mention 
of  his  name  he  gave  a  sudden  bound  in  his  seat,  and  his 
jaw  dropped  piteously.  Other  men  shook  themselves,  and 
passed  their  hands  over  their  eyes,  sighing  as  if  awakened 
from  a  sleep. 

"  Tliat,"  said  the  president,  reaching  out  his  hand  and 
appropriating  the  hat,  "  is  number  one.  We  have  still  to 
trust  to  destiny  for  another  choice." 

He  carefully  extracted  all  the  remaining  fragments  of 
paper  from  the  hat,  and,  crushing  them  in  his  hand,  rose 
from  his  seat  and  carefully  burned  them  in  the  tire  grate, 
while  the  gaunt  Percheron  produced  another  strip  and  read 
out  the  names  it  bore  for  verification  and  answer  as  before. 
The  whole  scene  re-enacted  itself.  Again  the  list  was 
shown  and  the  slips  were  folded,  and  again  the  hat  was 
placed  before  Evan.  Every-body  was  as  intensely  eager 
and  interested  as  before  except  the  miserable  Lebon,  who 
sat  at  the  foot  of  the  table  with  a  mask  of  misery  as  immo- 
bile as  stone.  There  were  only  four  or  five  in  the  whole 
assembly  who  knew  precisely  what  hung  upon  the  drawing 
of  the  names,  but  every  luan  there  knew  full  well  that  the 
game  was  pla3'ed  for  death.  No  such  solemnity  as  this 
would  have  marked  a  light  occasion. 

Evan  Tihjs  drew  for  the  second  time,  and  drew  with  a 
firm  hand.  Cadoudal's  fingers  shook  so,  and  so  fumbled 
over  their  simple  task,  that  Petrovna,  who  sat  near  him, 
relieved  him  of  it.     He  laid  tlie  paper  on   the  table,  and 


232 


pushed  it  gently  over  toward  Evan.  Tlie  hapless  young 
man  read  his  own  name  there  in  staring  black  letters — 
Evan  Rhys.  The  very  letters  seemed  to  have  some  fan- 
tastic meaning  he  had  never  seen  before.  He  was  not 
shocked  or  terrified  or  moved  in  any  way,  he  thought  : 
and  he  speculated  in  an  indifferent  fashion  as  to  whether 
a  man  suddenly  sentenced  to  death  would  feel  the  same 
indifference. 

A  voice  which  sounded  as  if  it  were  at  a  great  distance 
spoke  to  him,  and  a  hand  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  You  had  better  drink  this,"  said  Petrovna,  and  he 
seemed  to  awake  to  the  consciousness  of  lights  and  faces 
he  had  for  the  moment  forgotten.  He  drank  from  the 
proffered  glass,  and  tasted  nothing.  Petrovna  had  given 
him  neat  brandy. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  looking  about  him  with  an  awakening 
air.     "Evan  Rhys.     Yes,  that's  all  riglit." 

His  hat  was  lying  before  him  empty,  and  there  M^as  a 
pungent  smell  of  burning  paper  in  the  air.  He  looked  at 
the  faces  about  him,  and  the  strain  of  expectation  and 
terror  was  removed  from  all.  Lebon  still  sat  like  a  tear- 
ful garg03-lo,  and  Evan  wondered  witliin  himself  :  "  Did  I 
take  it  Avorse  than  that  fellow  ?  Nobody  gave  him  any 
thing  to  drink." 

"I  should  like  to  smoke  a  cigarette,"  he  said  aloud. 
"  May  I  be  permitted  ?  " 

"Assuredly,"  returned  Cadoudal,  Avho  had  recovered 
something  of  his  usual  bearing. 

Evan  found  himself  thinking  how  terribl}-  afraid  Cadou- 
dal was  lest  his  own  name  should  be  drawn.  As  for  him- 
self, he  knew  that  he  was  about  to  be  told  off  for  some  dark 
service,  and  he  rather  wondered  what  the  bland,  fat  benevo- 
lent Avould  have  done  with  such  a  task. 

"  It  now  becomes  my  duty,"  said  the  president,  rising 
to  his  feet,  "  to  explain   the  meaning  of  the  ballot  which 


233 


has  just  been  held,  and  to  lay  before  those  brethren  upon 
whom  the  choice  of  destiny  has  fallen  as  precise  an 
account  as  I  can  offer  of  the  tasks  they  are  called  upon  to 
perform.  In  order  that  I  may  make  the  purpose  of  the 
inner  conclave  perfectly  clear,  I  shall  offer  a  few  prelimi- 
nary observations. 

"The  difficulties  we  encounter  in  the  advocacy  of  our 
ideas  are  various  and  many.  Some  of  them  at  tlie  begin- 
ning,— I  speak  for  myself,  at  least,  and  of  my  own  experi- 
ence,— some  of  them  at  the  beginning  were  of  so  unex- 
pected a  nature  as  to  be  actually  startling.  It  was 
inevitable  that  we  should  find  enemies  among  the  upholders 
of  caste,  and  among  the  swollen  votaries  of  Mammon.  We 
knew  that  the  so-called  religious  societies  would  oppose 
us  in  the  mass,  and  would  denounce  us  as  creatures  void 
of  all  human  feeling.  But  we  did  not  at  first  perceive  that 
many  of  our  subtlest  and  most  powerful  enemies  are  to  be 
found  among  those  that  not  only  profess  but  exhibit  in 
their  daily  lives  a  pronounced  affection  and  solicitude  for 
the  poor.  But  on  reflection  it  will  be  seen  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  secure  universal  acceptance  for  our  doctrines  while 
the  suffering  poor  in  wliose  cause  we  labor  are  hoodwinked 
by  the  benevolence  of  a  few  of  those  whom  tliey  have  a 
right  to  I'egard  as  their  hereditary  oppressors.  It  must  be 
obvious  to  the  poorest  understanding  that  whatever  tends 
to  keep  the  peoples  of  the  Avorld  in  a  state  of  contented 
subjection  to  the  existing  condition  of  things  is  a  bar  to  the 
progress  of  those  great  and  lofty  ideals,  to  the  realization 
of  which  we  look  forward  to  witli  so  majestic  a  hope,  and  so 
tremulous  an  anxiety.  It  is  only  by  compression  that  you 
can  secure  force  for  an  explosion,  and  if  all  tyrants  had 
been  as  tyrannous  as  the  worst  of  their  class,  the  explosion 
toward  which  we  look,  and  for  which  we  are  each  in  his 
degree  preparing,  would  have  occurred  centuries  ago.  It 
is  the  benevolent  despot,  the  man  of  power  who  uses  his 


234 


power  benevolently,  who  is  the  bitterest  and  the  most 
accursed  among  the  foes  of  humanity. 

"  Our  most  dangerous  foes,  then,  among  the  aristocracy 
are  those  who  lull  themselves  into  the  dream  that  the 
whole  of  tlieir  class  may  one  day  be  converted  to  a  gener- 
osity superior  to  their  own,  and  who  proclaim  that  the 
duties  of  capital  toward  poverty  outweigh  whatever  privi- 
lege raaj'  belong  to  wealth.  There  are  men,  my  friends, 
who  would  bail  the  Atlantic  Ocean  with  a  tailor's  thimble. 
They  would  soothe  the  fiery  sores  of  Vesuvius  with  a  porous 
plaster.  In  the  words  of  Shakspere,  they  would  cool  the 
sun  by  fanning  his  face  witl)  a  peacock's  feather.  It  is 
these  weak  and  futile  enthusiasts  who  are  the  most  dan- 
gerous enemies  of  our  ideals,  and  they  are,  therefore,  the 
men  whom  we  are  most  urgently  called  upon  by  every 
voice,  alike  of  expediency  and  duty,  to  remove. 

"  Were  we,  my  friends,  the  heartless  and  bloodthirsty 
wretches  whom  the  world  imagines,  we  might  rush  to  the 
task  wliich  awaits  us  with  feelings  far  other  than  those 
which  now  animate  our  breasts.  But  we  are  men,  and 
men  of  sensibility  ;  men  with  eyes  to  see  the  intolerable 
misery  of  this  widespread  world  ;  men  whose  ears  are  filled 
witli  the  echo  of  a  groan  which  has  not  ceased  since  power 
first  begat  Property  on  Falsehood  ;  men  with  hearts  to 
answer  to  the  call  of  a  mangled  and  bleeding  humanity  ; 
men  with  the  clear-sighted  courage  wliicli  dares  to  look 
into  the  very  soul  of  truth  ;  men  wlio  recognize  that  the 
old  ways  of  reform  are  liopeless,  and  that  nothing  can  be 
acliieved  until  the  whole  fi'amework  of  tyranny  is  broken 
down,  and  the  cataclysmic  forces  of  a  world  in  wild  revolt 
have  crushed  and  rent,  and  burned  to  ashes,  the  last  vestige 
of  existing  law. 

"  Acting,  then,  on  these  convictions,  which  are  common  to 
us  all,  which  have  been  arrived  at  not  in  a  moment  of  beat 
or  passion,  but  as  the  result  of  long  and  calm  enquiry,  we 


28.5 


dedicate  our  two  brethren  on  whom  to-night's  lot  has 
fallen  to  a  duty  which,  though  stern  and  dreadful,  is  rati- 
fied by  the  voice  of  our  own  individual  and  collective 
conscience." 

Here  M.  Cadoudal  brouglit  his  speech  to  an  end,  and 
resumed  his  seat.  Two  envelopes,  each  with  a  crimson  seal 
impressed  Avith  his  own  private  crest,  lay  before  him,  face 
downward,  on  the  table.  He  shifted  these  nervously, 
shuffling  one  above  the  other  for  a  little  while,  as  his 
listeners  took  breath.  M.  Cadoudal  had  not  achieved  his 
position,  and  held  it  in  the  face  of  Paris  and  the  world  for 
thirty  years,  for  nothing.  Declamatory  as  his  periods  were 
in  form,  they  were  not  declaimed — they  dropped  from  his 
lips  in  a  quiet,  natural  music,  and  the  tone  of  heart-wrung 
regret  which  ran  through  all  the  sweet-voiced  passion  of 
his  speech  haunted  the  ear  and  set  the  heart  tingling.  It 
was  a  common  saying  that  while  Cadoudal  spoke  his 
listeners  believed  any  thing.  Reason  freed  itself  from  the 
enchantment  of  that  exquisite  manner,  that  touching  voice, 
that  noble  and  unconscious  gesture  ;  but  reason  had  no 
seat  at  his  table  that  evening,  and  the  honeyed  poison 
poured  by  a  fanatic  for  the  lips  of  fools  and  madmen 
was  swallowed  as  if  it  had  been  the  very  wine  of 
wisdom. 

Two  hearers  sat  indifferent — the  men  who  knew  them- 
selves appointed  to  the  shedding  of  blood.  The  others 
expressed  themselves  in  a  deep  murmur,  for  open  applause 
was  dangerous. 

Petrovna,  half  rising,  leaned  across  the  table  and  pos- 
sessed himself  of  the  two  envelopes  which  were  shuffling 
to  and  fro  in  the  hands  of  the  late  orator.  They  were 
marked  simply  with  the  figures  1  and  2.  Without  a  word 
he  handed  the  latter  to  Evan  Rhj^s,  and  sent  the  other 
skimming  along  to  the  foot  of  the  table,  where  Dusaulx 
laid  a  hand  upon  it,  and  puslied  it  toward  Lcbon. 


236 


Evan  broke  the  seal,  drew  out  a  plain  card,  and  read 
these  words  : 

"  Son  Excellence  le  Due  de  Kingsclear,  I'hotel  de  son 
Excellence  le  Due  de  Marais  Castel." 

The  matter  seemed  to  concern  him  very  little,  but  he 
slipped  the  card  into  the  ticket  pocket  of  his  coat,  and 
placed  with  it  the  crumjiled  crimson  slip  which  bore  his 
own  name,  and  indicated  his  destiny.  Then  he  looked  up, 
and  encountered  the  glance  of  Lebon.  He  too  had  opened 
his  envelope,  and  had  read  the  inscription  on  his  card. 
He  wore  the  look  of  a  man  who  is  falling  into  a  fit  of 
epilepsy.  His  eyes  rolled,  his  features  writhed  and  jerked, 
his  whole  body  was  moved  by  involuntary  spasms.  There 
was  a  thick  foam  upon  his  lips.  Twice  he  tried  to  speak, 
but  his  lips  gave  forth  nothing  but  an  inarticulate  murmur. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  he  cried  at  last.  "  Qu'est  que  c'est  5a  ? 
Mon  frere  ?  Jamais  !  Jamais  !  Jamais  !  C'est  infame  ! 
C'est  horrible  !     C'est  impossible  !  " 

Petrovna  rose  quietlj^,  and  patted  the  table  twice  or 
thrice  to  secure  the  miserable  man's  attention. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said,  "  it  is  necessary  to  say  but  a  word. 

The   penalty  for   disobedience  is Shall  I   speak  the 

word  ?  " 

"Oh,"  said  Lebon,  Avith  a  shrug  of  infinite  misery  and 
resignation,  "je  connais  bien  le  mot  !  " 


CHAPTER  X 

Four  weeks  elapsed. 

For  the  first  fortnight  Evan  was  stunned  by  a  sense  of 
the  misfortune  which  had  fallen  upon  him.  He  had 
promised  himself  many  things,  and  seen  himself  a  thou- 
sand times  in  fancy  posed  as  a  hero  and  a  martyr.  But  he 
had  never  pictured  himself  as  an  assassin. 

He  began  to  take  an  extraordinary  interest  in  the  doings 
of  the  English  Duke  of  Kingsclear,  who  at  this  time, 
indeed,  made  a  great  figure  in  Paris,  and  was  to  be  read 
about  in  the  journals  of  almost  every  issue.  The  biogra- 
phers of  the  distinguished  English  stranger  left  the 
enquirer  but  little  to  seek  with  regard  to  his  public  career. 
He  was  that  Marquess  of  Avelchurch  who,  fourteen  years 
ago,  after  a  four-years'  tour  around  the  world,  had  entered 
the  House  of  Commons,  and  had  introduced  a  half  score  of 
bills  for  the  amelioration  of  the  condition  of  the  working- 
man — bills  so  radical  and  sweeping  in  their  tendency  that 
even  a  House  inspired  by  the  free  voice  of  enlarged  con- 
stituencies had  not  dared  to  pass  them  without  conservative 
amendments.  It  was  that  Marquess  of  Avelchurch  who,  at 
enormous  cost,  had  built  a  phalanstery  on  his  Devonshire 
estate,  and  had  gathered  there  the  discharged  criminals  of 
the  I'ealm  in  the  hope  of  reforming  them,  and  winning 
them  back  to  an  honest  life,  until  at  last  they  had  burned 
his  costly  palace  over  their  own  heads,  and  gone  devious 
about  their  separate  wicked  ways.  It  was  that  Marquess 
of  Avelchurch  who  was  known  as  chairman  to  countless 
societies  for  the  reformation  of  the  criminal  grown  and 
netted;  for  the  dredging  of  criminality's  sea  for  criminal 

237 


spawn  ;  for  the  sterilization  of  the  criminal  and  pauper 
microbe,  here,  there,  and  everywhere.  A  man  complained 
of  by  the  lively  Gallic  journalist  as  exhibiting  in  perfection 
la  morgue  Anglaise,  and  yet  admirable  and  admired  for  a 
constant  heroism  of  effort  in  the  cause  of  the  poor — known 
to  have  spent  his  huge  fortune  like  water  on  schemes  for 
tlieir  benefit ;  a  teetotaller,  a  vegetarian,  and  anti-tobac- 
conist, the  foremost  Avarrior  against  the  opium  trafiic, 
a  spiritualist,  a  faddist,  a  cold  enthusiast,  a  most  noble- 
minded  and  unutterably  wearisome  crank  and  bore.  One 
of  God's  angels,  none  the  less,  spending  himself  day  and 
night  without  reserve  in  the  service  of  his  fellow-creatures  ; 
worshipped  and  flouted,  scoffed  at  and  pityingly  endured. 

This  Marquess  of  Avelchurch  had,  in  fulness  of  time, 
come  to  be  Duke  of  Kingsclear,  and  now  bored  the  gilded 
chamber  instead  of  the  popular.  Ever3'-body  admired 
and  esteemed  him  for  his  moral  qualit}',  but  all  men 
shunned  the  prim  arrogance  of  his  spoken  platitudes.  He 
could  empty  a  festive  chamber  as  effectively  as  a  smoking 
chimney  in  a  March  wind.  He  gave  the  world  an  unstinted, 
aching  love,  and  got  back  from  it  for  main  paj'ment  a 
tolerant  laughter ! 

It  was  this  Marquess  of  Avelchurch,  Evan  remembered, 
who  had  once  attempted  to  rescue  him  from  savager}^  and 
pauperism,  and  from  whom  he  had  run  away,  only  to  see 
the  black  flag  floating  over  the  walls  of  Adelaide  jail  at 
the  close  of  a  memorable  journey. 

It  was  this  Marquess  of  Avelchurch  whom  he  was 
deputed,  on  the  peril  of  his  own  life,  to  assassinate. 

He  made  one  step  in  that  direction.  He  went  to 
Petrovna,  and  asked  him  for  the  shell  of  a  bomb.  He  filled 
that  shell  with  his  own  diabolical  compound,  made  after 
the  formula  of  the  benevolent  and  eloquent  Cadoudal,  and 
put  the  bomb  away,  ready  for  use,  in  a  little  black  hand- 
bag, in  which  it  lay  safely  packed  in  cotton-wool.     Many 


239 


a  time  he  was  tempted  as  he  sat  alone  to  cast  the  bomb 
upon  the  floor  of  his  own  chamber,  between  his  own  feet, 
and  so  bring  an  ignominious  and  frustrated  life  to  a  close. 

But  the  four  weeks  had  gone  by,  and  there  came  an 
ominous  warning.  The  ruffianly  Ducos  swaggered  into  his 
room  one  day  without  a  preliminary  knock,  stared  with 
blear  eye  at  the  occupant,  slammed  his  hand  on  the  table 
noisily  between  them,  and  went  out  again  without  a  word. 
Two  minutes  later  Evan  found  on  the  spot  at  which  the 
blackguard  had  struck  that  resounding  blow  upon  the  table 
a  scrap  of  paper,  on  which  in  a  rough  and  unformed  hand 
these  words  were  traced  : 

"  L'ouvrage  ou  la  mort." 

Evan  was  almost  at  the  end  of  his  financial  tether,  but 
he  went  out  steadily  that  evening,  and  bought  a  revolver, 
which  he  loaded  in  every  chamber.  From  that  night  for- 
ward the  weapon  was  his  constant  comjDanion.  He  learned 
its  mechanism.  He  unloaded  it,  and  went  through  a  form 
of  practice  at  a  postage  stamp  gummed  on  the  blank  wall 
of  his  room. 

So  another  week  went  on. 

At  the  end  of  it  a  letter  came  through  the  post  unsigned, 
undated.     It  was  written  in  English,  and  read  : 

/'You  have  till  to-morrow  midnight.  Not  an  hour 
after." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Evan  on  reading  it.  "  So  much  the 
better  for  me.  I  would  rather  die  fighting  than  eat  poison 
of  my  own  making  in  this  sewer  of  despairing  cowardice." 

He  walked  the  streets  till  midnight  like  a  phantom.  He 
had  not  tasted  food  for  da3's.  For  the  last  three  daj^s  he 
had  had  no  money  for  food,  and  had  felt  no  need  of  it. 
When  at  night  he  retui-ned  to  his  chambers,  from  which 
every  thing  salable  had  been  stripped,  he  cast  himself 
upon  his  bare  pallet,  and,  worn  out  by  the  emotion  of  many 
days  and  nights,  slept  like  an  innocent  child. 


240 


When  he  awoke,  the  dawn  was  rising  over  the  great  city. 
All  the  smoke  with  which  the  manifold  fires  of  that  busy 
little  insect  man  darken  the  fair  face  of  heaven  had  fallen 
under  the  quiet  dews,  or  had  been  blown  away  by  tranquil 
winds  which  drew  softly  from  the  blue  Mediterranean  to 
the  gray  Channel  waters.  As  he  looked  through  his  win- 
dow the  lower  reaches  of  the  sky  were  of  the  faintest  and 
most  tender  apple  green.  This  merged  softly  into  pure 
amber.  The  amber  resolved  itself  into  rose,  so  delicate 
and  ethereal  that  it  looked  like  the  element  of  a  dream, 
and,  in  turn,  the  rose  color  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  until 
it  was  drowned  in  the  blue  of  the  zenith.  Infinitely  rest- 
ful. Infinitely  mournful.  Infinitely  calm.  The  young 
man  set  his  elbow  on  the  window-sill,  and  looked  up  at  it 
all,  seated  in  a  ragged  cane  chair,  and  wondered,  and,  in 
such  a  blind  fashion  as  was  possible  for  liim,  worshipped. 
Right  away  overhead  in  the  deep  heart  of  the  deepest  blue 
of  the  zenith  one  belated  star  throbbed  and  tingled,  and 
went  out,  extinguished  in  the  smaller  but  nearer  glory  of 
the  rising  sun.  Why  was  it  tliat  at  that  instant  the  one 
caress  his  mother  had  given  him  in  all  his  bitter  and 
neglected  infancy  should  recur  to  his  remembrance  ?  It 
brought  the  tears  tingling  to  his  eyes  with  a  sense  of  barely 
endurable  physical  pain. 

The  light  broadened,  and  the  forehead  of  the  day,  clear- 
ing the  lower  roof-tops  of  the  cit}',  struck  into  his  lofty 
chamber  through  a  golden  mist,  and  smeared  its  shabb}- 
M-all-paper  with  amber  and  gold  and  topaz,  and  all  such 
sublimated  tones  of  3'ellow  as  the  level  sun  can  ^-ield. 

The  clock  of  a  neighboring  church  tolled  four.  He  bad 
yet  twenty  hours  in  which  to  gain  life  as  the  wage  of 
murder.  It  Avas  bj'-  no  will  of  his  own  that  he  made  his 
final  resolution.  Ho  walked  into  the  room  in  which  he  had 
lived  and  worked  for  the  past  few  months,  and  in  the 
drawer  of  his  unclothed  table,  which  stood  in  the  middle  of 


241 


it,  he  found  a  pen,  a  bottle  of  cheap  ink,  a  sheet  of  writing- 
paper,  and  an  envelope. 

He  sat  down,  and,  without  being  conscious  of  any  inward 
impulse,  he  wrote  this  renunciation  of  all  the  errors  of  his 
life  : 

"  To  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Kingsclear : 

"  Sir  :  Your  friend  the  Due  de  Marais  Castel  will  give 
to  you  any  information  you  may  require  concerning  the 
writer  of  this  letter.  Before  you  receive  it  I  shall  have 
ceased  to  live. 

"  It  is  not  my  purpose  to  reveal  to  you  the  names  of  my 
associates,  but  I  am  a  member  of  a  society  which,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  for  curiously  inadequate  reasons,  has  resolved 
upon  your  death.  Five  weeks  ago  I  was  cliosen  b}'^  ballot 
to  be  your  assassin,  and  I  have  now  received  warning  that 
unless  my  own  mission  is  completed  before  midnight  of 
this  date  I  shall  myself  be  subjected  to  the  penalty  of 
deatli.  When  my  bodj'  is  found,  as  it  will  be  in  all  prob- 
ability within  tlie  course  of  the  next  few  hours,  this  com- 
munication Avill  be  conveyed  to  you  by  the  police,  who  will 
take  all  the  precautions  necessary  to  safeguard  you  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  your  stay  in  Paris. 
"  I  am,  sir, 

"  Your  devoted  servant, 

"  Evan  Rhys." 

He  enclosed  this  brief  epistle,  and  addressed  it  to  the 
Duke  of  Kingsclear  "  Aux  Soins  de  Son  Excellence  le  Due 
de  Marais  Castel,  Quai  d'Orsai."  Then,  being  heavy 
with  hunger  and  with  many  wakeful  nights,  he  threw  him- 
self anew  upon  his  pallet,  and  slept  again  until  higli  noon. 

He  awoke  savagely  hungrj',  and,  chuckling  to  liimself  at 
the  idea  that  it  was  worth  while  to  sustain  life  in  a  body 
so  near  dissolution  as  his  own,  he  stripped  off  his  coat  and 
16 


243 


waistcoat.  He  rolled  the  inner  garment  into  a  small 
bundle,  and  buttoned  his  coat  over  his  last  threadbare 
shirt, 

"  We  will  eat  and  drink  and  be  merry,"  he  said,  "  for 
to-morrow  we  shall  have  made  a  stir  in  the  world,  and 
nobody  will  care  one  sou  about  it." 

He  walked  into  the  sunlit  streets  and  found  the  shop  of 
a  dealer  in  second-hand  raiment,  with  whom  he  chaffered 
for  the  sale  of  the  waistcoat.  The  dealer  examined  it 
with  the  wrinkled  nose,  raised  e3'ebrows  of  disdain,  and 
pursed  lips  of  calculation  which  mark  the  practised  pur- 
chaser.    It  Avas  nought,  said  the  buyer. 

"  It  will  be  Avorth  something  to-morrow,"  said  Evan, 
with  a  laugh,  "  if  you  keep  it  till  to-morroAv.  Come,  what 
are  you  disposed  to  give  for  it  ?  " 

"  Two  francs,"  the  purchaser  groaned.  "  Two  francs  at 
the  utmost." 

"  Good  ! "  said  the  desperate  youngster,  with  an  air  of 
Bohemian  merriment.  "I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  make 
it  valuable  to  you.  Give  me  a  pencil  or  a  pen,  and  I 
guarantee  that  you  sell  it  as  a  curio  for  a  hundred  francs 
to-morroAV." 

The  HebroAV  dealer,  void  of  speculation  in  the  larger 
sense,  pottered  doAvn  upon  his  counter  a  franc,  a  piece  for 
fifty  centimes,  and  ten  greasy  sous.  Seeing  his  customer 
pi-e-engaged,  he  AvithdrcAv  one  of  these,  and  smiled  to  see 
the  victim  of  his  art  sweep  the  miserable  little  handful  of 
money  into  his  pocket  Avitliout  counting  it. 

"Come,"  said  Evan,  "a  pencil.  You  shall  have  my 
autograph  on  tlie  litiing.  For  one  day,  to-morrow,  I  shall 
be  tlie  most  celebrated  man  in  Paris." 

The  man  gave  him  a  pencil,  and  he  Avrote  his  name  in 
sprawling  letters  upon  the  Avhite  satinet.  He  did  this 
Avith  a  certain  complaisance,  and  quoted  to  himself  as  he 
left  the  shop,  out  of  his  English  reading,  Avhich  had  been 


243 


wide  and  varied  considering  his  years  :  "  The  mirth  of  fools 
is  like  the  crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot."  The  ancient 
Hebrew  hobbled  to  liis  door-way,  and,  having  cast  a  single 
glance  in  the  direction  of  his  departing  customer,  went 
back,  clothed  with  mercantile  splendors  of  his  own  imagi- 
nation. The  pilfered  halfpenny  was  sweeter  than  a  pennj'" 
of  honest  profit. 

Evan's  cheap  five-chambered  revolver  was  in  the  breast- 
pocket of  his  coat.  He  hugged  it  as  he  walked  toward 
the  restaurant  at  which  he  took  his  meals.  If  a  guest  was 
not  particular  as  to  the  quality  of  his  provender,  he  might 
have  a  great  deal  for  two  francs  at  this  house  of  entertain- 
ment, and  Evan  breakfasted  raagnificenth',  and  drank  half 
a  bottle  of  thin  wine.  The  stomach  is  the  one  enduring 
organ,  he  reflected.  It  asserts  its  claim  and  levies  its  tolls 
up  to  the  last  minute. 

There  was  a  little  spot  he  knew  not  far  from  the  Cascade 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  a  green  space  with  overshadow- 
ing trees  and  grass  to  lie  upon.  At  this  season  of  the  year 
the  place  would  not  be  deserted  for  five  minutes  at  a  time 
all  day  long,  and  the  body  of  a  suicide  lying  there  would 
be  certain  of  almost  immediate  discovery.  As  he  walked 
along  tlie  street  his  fancy  showed  him  a  hundred  wa3's  in 
which  the  discovery  was  made.  His  own  body  lay  in  its 
respectable  dark  garments,  with  arms  extended,  and  now  a 
spectacled  student,  with  his  index  finger  between  the  leaves 
of  a  book,  and  now  a  romping  girl,  in  a  white  dress  with 
pink  sprigs,  pursued  by  her  sweetheart,  and  now  a  chatter- 
ing party  of  children,  came  upon  the  scene.  Imagination 
was  so  vivid  that  he  saw  all  these  people  and  countless 
others,  and  emotion  was  so  numbed  that  within  himself  he 
felt  absolutely  nothing — neither  fear  nor  remorse,  neither 
sorrow  nor  self-pity.  From  time  to  time,  as  he  Avalkcd, 
he  put  up  his  hand  to  the  weapon  which  nestled  near  his 
heart  and  felt  its  outlines. 


244 


Well,  at  least  he  was  meeting  bis  doom  like  a  man. 
There  was  a  certain  satisfaction  in  his  mind,  a  certain 
approval  of  his  own  sang-froid.  Pie  had,  in  one  way  or 
another,  mislaid  the  purpose  of  his  life.  He  had  no  time 
in  which  to  look  for  it,  and  could  do  nothing  with  it  now 
if  it  were  found.  He  reasoned  out  the  theories  which  had 
led  him  to  so  early  and  so  mournful  a  close  for  all  things. 
Even  now  he  could  find  no  fault  with  them,  could  discover 
no  flaw.  The  eloquent  periods  of  Cadoudal's  speech,  which 
at  the  time  of  its  utterance  he  seemed  scarcely  to  have 
heard,  came  back  to  him.  They  sounded  convincing  as 
they  repeated  themselves  upon  his  inward  ear,  and  yet  his 
heart  rejected  the  conclusion  to  which  they  forced  bis 
mind.  Like  Hamlet  he  had  seen  that  the  world  was  out 
of  joint,  and  like  Hamlet  he  had  felt  that  he  was  born  to  set 
it  right.  He  bad  experienced  the  cursed  spite  of  it,  but 
be  bad  put  all  that  behind  him.  With  all  his  indifference 
he  knew  that  the  calm  in  which  be  walked  was  the  calm 
of  the  heart  of  the  whirlwind. 

He  walked  leisurely,  for  be  felt  neither  baste  nor  dread, 
and  the  end  would  come  in  its  due  time.  The  road  lead- 
ing to  the  Bois  was  not  crowded  at  this  season  with  fashion- 
able equipages,  as  it  would  have  been  two  or  three  months 
earlier,  but  brakes  and  omnibuses,  beaiing  crowds  of  Eng- 
lish and  American  tourists,  bowled  along,  and  a  flood  of 
hired  fiacres  and  an  unending  procession  of  foot  passengers 
poured  in  one  direction.  He  was  one  of  the  throng. 
They  were  all  travelling  in  the  same  direction,  and  would 
all  reach  the  same  bourne,  he  a  little  earlier  than  tlie 
rest. 

Suddenly  be  caught  sight  of  the  Marais  Castel  liveries, 
and  a  second  later  met  the  eye  of  tlieir  owner  point-blank. 
He  did  not  guess  it,  but,  in  spite  of  the  inward  calm  on 
which  he  congratulated  himself,  there  was  a  look  in  his 
face  to  arrest  attention.     No  discerning  man  could  have 


245 


regarded  him  for  an  instant  witliout  reading  pure  despera- 
tion there.  The  duke  held  up  a  hand  to  him  and  called 
sharply  to  his  coachman.  Evan  had  raised  his  wide-awake, 
and  passed  on,  but  the  returning  carriage  caught  him  in  a 
moment. 

"Evan  !  "  called  the  duke  imperativel}^,  and  he  was  com- 
pelled to  turn.  "  Jump  in  here.  I  have  to  speak  to 
you." 

Evan  entered  the  open  carriage  submissively.  He  was 
in  no  hurry,  and  one  place  would  serve  his  purpose  as  well 
as  another.  He  surrendered  the  fancy  in  favor  of  that 
shadowed  turfy  space  in  the  Bois. 

The  duke  gave  his  orders  to  the  coachman,  and  the  car- 
riage turned  again  and  rolled  swiftly  cityward.  The  drive 
to  the  Quai  d'Orsai  occupied  the  better  part  of  half  an 
hour,  but  neither  the  duke  nor  Evan  spoke  a  word.  As 
the  carriage  pulled  up  briskly  at  the  entrance  to  the  hotel 
on  the  Quai  d'Orsai  a  gaunt,  slouching  man,  Avho  was 
lounging  near  at  hand,  gave  a  great  start,  and  Evan, 
recognizing  him,  started  also. 

"  You  know  that  blackguard  ?  "  asked  the  duke  sternly. 
"  He  slinks  off,  you  observe.  I  met  that  fellow  in  Adelaide* 
a  pretended  convert  from  the  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
addressing  nonconformist  audiences  in  broken  English,  and 
varying  his  devotional  exercises  by  a  little  pocket-picking 
and  an  occasional  forgery.  I  saw  him  again  two  years  ago 
in  Lyons,  itinerant  pill-vender  and  street  conjurer.  Now 
I  learn  tliat  he  is  one  of  your  own  precious  confraternit}'." 
They  were  by  this  time  in  the  duke's  private  apartments. 
"  My  poor  lad.  You  are  going  from  bad  to  worse.  I 
know  your  associates,  and  the  police  know  them  as  well  as 
I  do.  Cadondal  is  a  rhetorical  old  -windbag.  Petrovna  is 
a  madman.  Frost  is  a  blackguard  w^ho  has  traded  basely 
for  years  on  the  American-Irish.  What  is  the  good  of 
these  people  ?     Why  do  you  consort  with  them  when  you 


246 


have  the  chance  of  knowing  tlie  best  men  in  the  world? 
And,  forgive  me,  my  young  friend,  what  is  this  ?  " 

He  laid  a  sudden  hand  upon  the  young  man's  breast, 
where  the  outline  of  the  revolver  was  clearly  marked  in 
the  cloth  of  the  close-buttoned  coat. 

"  Why  does  a  civilized  man  in  a  civilized  city  carry  that 
sort  of  gimcrack  ?     Hand  it  to  me." 

"  I  have  a  use  for  it,  sir,"  said  Evan. 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  the  duke,  "  is  it  so  deep,  and  are  we  so  far 
under  water  ?  You  infernal  young  idiot  !  You  wilful 
muncher  of  bitter  bread  !  You  crowned  king  of  the  long- 
eared  thistle-eating  tribe  !  I  have  never  been  able  alto- 
gether to  play  the  grandee  with  you,  Evan,  for  a  good 
many  years  ago  j^ou  helped  me  on  occasion  to  carry  slops 
to  the  pigs  at  Koollala,  and  that  memory  detracts  from 
any  sense  of  more  recent  dignit}^  I  won't  play  the  patron, 
but  take  me  as  an  elder  brother,  you  foolish  and  misguided 
fellow.  Come,  my  lad."  He  laid  a  hand  on  either  shoul- 
der and  rocked  the  wretched  youngster  to  and  fro.  "You 
should  do  what  the  devil  j^ou  liked  with  yourself,  but  I 

don't  want  you  to  hurt  me.     D it  all,  my  bo}',  I  love 

you,  and  it  goes  to  my  heart  to  see  you  spoil  yourself." 

The  bright  calm  in  which  he  had  walked  toward  death 
was  clouded  for  Evan.  The  tears  ran  down  his  face,  and 
a  gasping  sob  or  two  escaped  him.  He  crumpled  in  his 
nervous  hands  the  black  felt  hat  from  which  he  liad  drawn 
the  two  fatal  tickets  five  weeks  ago,  and  on  a  sudden,  to 
his  utter  and  complete  amazement,  there  fell  from  the  lin- 
ing, before  his  tear-blurred  eyes,  a  crimson  slip,  on  which 
he  read  his  own  name.  He  dashed  a  hand  across  his  face, 
seized  the  slip,  and  stared  at  it  hard. 

"What  is  this?"  asked  the  duke.  But  the  young  man 
returned  no  answer.  His  right  hand  travelled  mechanically 
to  the  ticket  pocket  in  which  he  had  placed  the  fatal  paper 
which   had  condemned   him   to   the    assassination    of   the 


247 


Duke  of  Kingscleav.     His  fingers  found  it,  and  be  laid  it 
side  by  side  with  the  otlier  in  the  crown  of  bis  hat. 

"Is  that,"  asked  the  duke,  "  the  form  of  visiting-card  in 
iise  among  tlie  brotherhood  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  Evan  answered,  "  It  seems  to  serve  another 
purpose." 

He  was  like  a  man  who,  standing  in  pitch  darkness,  sees 
the  whole  landscape  before  him  from  right  to  left  suddenly- 
illuminated  by  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  finds  every  detail 
fired,  as  it  were,  upon  the  mind  with  a  minuteness  and  dis- 
tictness  which  could  only  have  come  of  long  observation 
in  plain  day. 

"  You  say,  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  that  fellow  Percheron 
was  a  conjurer  ?  " 

"  Are  you  mad  ?  "  cried  the  duke.  "  What  are  you  talk- 
ing of  ?  " 

"  The  man  you  pointed  out  to  me  outside,"  said  Evan — 
"  the  fellow  who  slunk  away  when  the  carriage  drew  up  at 
the  door?" 

"  Oh,  that  fellow,"  said  the  duke.  "I  thought  j^our 
wits  were  Avandering.  Yes,  I  saw  him  amusing  a  crowd 
by  conjuring  tricks  in  Lyons  two  years  ago.  What  about 
him  ?  " 

"  He  seems  to  have  played  a  trick  on  me,  sir,"  said 
Evan  calmly.  "  Something  hangs  upon  it,  but  not  much. 
I  shall  have  to  play  a  trick  upon  him  and  his  confederates 
in  return." 

"My  young  friend,"  said  Marais  Castel,  "  I  confess  hon- 
estly I  do  not  like  your  manner.  Give  me  that  toy  you 
carry  in  your  pocket.  If  you  have  any  use  for  that  at  all, 
it  can  scarcely  be  a  wholesome  one." 

Evan  surrendered  the  cheap  revolver. 

"I  have  no  use  for  that  at  present,  sir,"  he  said  with  a 
queer  smile.  "  If  j^ou  will  alloAv  mc,  I  will  go  now.  I  find 
that  I  have  business  to  attend  to." 


248 


"Upon  my  word,"  said  the  duke,  "I  like  your  manner 
less  and  less,  Evan.  Either  you  are  playing  a  theatrical 
part, — and  that  is  a  thing  I  will  not  readily  insult  you  by 
believing, — or  there  is  something  in  your  mind  which  has  no 
right  to  be  there.  Can't  you  make  a  friend  of  me  ?  Can't 
you  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  tell  me  all  your  troubles  ?" 

As  he  spoke  he  reached  out  both  hands  toward  the 
lad,  who  seized  upon  them  with  a  burst  of  sobs  and  tears 
he  had  no  power  or  will  to  control,  Evan  kissed  the 
hands  over  and  over  again,  gasping  inarticulate  words  of 
love  and  gratitude  and  contrition.  The  duke  waited,  him- 
self not  unmoved,  for  the  subsiding  of  the  storm  ;  but  on 
a  sudden  Evan,  with  one  last  Avringing  of  his  hands, 
turned,  snatched  from  the  table  the  hat  with  the  two 
crimson  slips  within  it,  and  fairly  ran  from  the  room.  His 
kind  patron  and  constant  fiiend  followed  him,  calling  on 
his  name,  but  Evan  returned  no  answer.  The  astonished 
doorkeeper  let  him  out  into  the  street,  still  weeping  wildly, 
and  catching  his  breath  in  great  inward  sobs.  Passers-by 
stared  after  him  as  he  plunged  along  the  pathway.  Two 
or  three  minutes  went  by  before  he  was  sufficiently  master 
of  himself  to  know  that  he  was  observed.  When  he 
became  aware  of  this,  he  smoothed  his  disordered  hair, 
sought  and  found  the  two  crimson  slips,  assumed  his  hat, 
and,  walking  steadily  with  renewed  composure  toward  the 
Avenue  de  la  Grande  Armee,  soon  left  conjecture  and 
curiosity  far  behind. 


CHAPTER  XI 

And  so  M.  Percheoii  was  a  prestidigitateur,  and  the 
ballot  of  five  weeks  ago  had  been  a  traitorous  and  wicked 
farce.  His  name  and  the  name  of  Lebon  alone  had  been 
placed  in  the  hat,  and  the  devilish  scheme  had  made  it 
certain  that  whatever  fragments  of  paper  he  had  drawn 
would  have  condemned  the  two  and  no  others  to  the 
deed  of  blood  assigned  them.  Cadoudal,  the  benevolent 
Cadoudal,  was  privy  to  this  infamy.  Evan  read  the  shak- 
ing hand,  the  strained  smile,  the  choking  voice — read  their 
indications  now  with  so  absolute  a  precision  that  he  groaned 
aloud  to  think  of  the  blindness  which  had  beset  him  at 
the  moment.  Petrovna  knew  it.  There  was  a  hard,  quiet 
something  in  his  eye  Avhich  said  so  much.  Dusaulx  knew 
it,  and  Evan  read  his  knowledge  in  his  downward,  listen- 
ing smile.  Ducos  knew  it,  and  his  braggadocio,  semi- 
drunken  swagger,  and  the  bullying  bellow  with  which  be 
answered  to  his  name  proclaimed  his  villany  ari'ogantly. 
The  whole  scene  was  pictured  in  his  mind,  not  like  a 
picture,  but  as  in  a  scene  upon  the  stage.  He  saw  the 
faces,  heard  the  voices,  remembered  tones  and  gestures 
which  he  did  not  seem  to  have  noted  at  the  time. 

But  why  should  he  and  Lebon  have  been  fixed  upon  as 
the  instruments  for  this  double  deed  of  wickedness  ?  He 
thought  he  saw  the  answer  clear.  Both  of  them  were 
useful,  and  each  was  wavering.  A  man  with  an  act  of 
assassination  behind  him  was  likely  to  stick  at  nothing 
later  on,  and  was  held  in  such  a  cage  of  fear  and  horror  by 
his  comrades  that  he  would  obey  their  lightest  bidding. 

Lebon  was  in  his  workshop,  pipe  in  mouth,  punching  at 

249 


250 


a  sand  mould  with  the  rounded  stick  used  in  the  trade.  He 
turned  and  greeted  Evan  on  his  entrance  with  a  sidelong 
nod.  His  face  was  even  more  tearful  of  aspect  than  of 
old,  and  the  very  droop  of  his  shoulders  as  he  worked 
spoke  of  dejection.  The  apprentice  was  away,  and  Evan 
closed  and  barred  the   door  before   he  spoke. 

"Lay  that  tool  down,"  he  said,  "and  listen  to  me.  I 
have  something  to  tell  you  which  you  must  hear." 

The  man  threw  down  the  tool  and  turned,  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  sagging  downward  like  the  loose  ends  of  a 
purse,  and  his  big,  jjrotrusive  eyes  winking  and  blinking 
behind  a  mist  of  tears. 

"  They  may  do  as  they  please,"  he  said.  "  They  will 
get  nothing  out  of  me.  That  blackguard  Ducos  has  been 
here.  Le  vaurien  !  And  unless  the  job  is  done  to-night, 
he  tells  me,  it  is  all  over  with  both  of  us.  I  told  him  to  his 
nose  I  would  see  him  in  hell.  We  are  in  rough  weather, 
my  comrade." 

"  We  have  been  brought  here  by  wicked  pilotage,"  said 
Evan.  "  You  remember  it  was  from  my  hat  that  the 
papers  were  drawn  ?  " 

"  I  remember,"  Lebon  answered,  with  a  melancholy  nod. 
"  What  of  it  ?  " 

Evan  laid  the  two  crimson  slips  before  him. 

"I  found  one  of  these  in  the  lining  of  my  hat  to-day. 
Do  you  see  what  that  means  ?  This  is  tlie  paper  I  drew 
and  this  is  the  one  I  found.  Do  you  understand  ?  That 
villain  Percheron  made  a  living  as  a  street  conjurer. 
The  names  of  the  other  men  never  went  into  the  hat  at 
all." 

The  man  seemed  dazed,  and  looked  as  if  he  were  wander- 
ing in  his  wits.     Evan  sliook  liim  savagely  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  understand.  That  is  because  I  would 
make  no  more  shells  for  them." 


251 


"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  "  Evan  demanded. 

"  Do  ?  "  said  the  otlier.     "  Nothing." 

At  this  minute  there  was  a  hammering  at  the  door,  and 
Evan  unbarred  and  opened  it.  There  stood  Petrovna,  in 
his  respectable  black  frock  coat,  his  broad-brimmed  soft 
felt  hat,  his  spectacles,  and  his  huge  grizzly  beard,  present- 
ing a  figure  almost  as  benignant  and  venerable  as  M. 
Cadoudal  himself. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "you  are  here.  I  shall  kill  two  birds 
with  one  stone." 

Evan  stood  on  one  side  to  allow  him  to  enter,  and 
Petrovna  crossed  the  threshold,  saluting  Lebon  by  a  wave 
of  the  walking-stick  he  carried.  Evan's  glittering  eye 
never  left  him  for  an  instant,  but  the  young  man  put 
out  a  backward  hand  and  took  up  the  two  strips  of 
paper  which  lay  on  the  sand  in  the  open  half- made 
mould. 

"  There  is  nobody  likely  to  hear  us,  if  we  talk  business  ?  " 
asked  Petrovna,  taking  out  a  handkerchief  and  lifting  his 
hat  to  mop  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 

"  There  are  three  of  us,"  said  Lebon  sulkily.  "  You  can 
say  what  you  like.     There  is  no  one  else  to  hear." 

"  I  have  come  to  warn  you,"  said  Petrovna,  addressing 
Lebon.  "  I  have  taken  trouble  for  the  sake  of  my  young 
friend  here.  You  have  both  liad  your  warning  already, 
but  I  have  busied  mj'-self  in  your  belialf.  There  is  a  meet- 
ing to-night  at  the  house  of  our  venerable  friend.  If  you 
choose  to  attend  it  and  make  promise  of  amendment,  your 

late   misconduct   may   be   overlooked.     If    not "     He 

waved  botli  hands  abroad,  with  the  stick  in  one  hand  and 
the  handkerchief  in  the  other,  and  suffered  them  both  to 
fall  resoundingly  upon  his  thighs. 

"  I  shall  be  there,"  said  Evan,  holding  that  unchanging 
glance  upon  him. 

"  And  I,"  said  Lebon,  "  shall  not." 


253 


"  You  told  me,"  said  Petrov.na,  "  five  weeks  ago  to-day 
that  you  knew  the  word." 

"But  yes,"  said  Lebon,  "  I  know  the  word  well,  I  am 
afraid  neither  of  the  word  nor  of  the  thing.  Look  thee, 
my  friend.  A  man  like  me  has  not  a  great  deal  to  live  for. 
The  best  I  could  do  at  any  time  was  to  keep  the  old  mother. 
When  I  had  broken  my  arm  and  had  sold  everj^  thing,  I 
took  your  money.  Slie  has  need  of  nothing  now,  and  you 
may  do  as  yon  please.  You  are  a  bloodthirsty  lot,"  he 
added,  with  a  curious  simplicity.  "  I  Avould  do  none  of  you 
harm  if  you  would  leave  me  alone,  but  because  I  will  not 
oblige  you  by  killing  my  foster-brother  you  will  kill  me. 
Soit  !  I  never  reckoned  on  making  old  bones,  and  I  have 
been  ready  a  hundred  times  to  make  away  with  mj'self. 
There  is  quiet  under  the  green  turf,  hein  ?  And  the  old 
mother  is  taken  care  of." 

"  You,"  said  Petrovna,  surveying  him  with  cool  scorn, 
"  were  always  a  fool  since  I  liave  known  you.  But  you," — 
he  turned  on  Evan, — "I  am  glad  to  see,  have  the  wit  to 
choose  the  wiser  course." 

"Yes,"  said  Evan,  fingering  the  slips  of  paper  in  his 
pocket.  "  I  have,  as  you  sa}'",  chosen  the  wiser  course.  I 
shall  be  there  to-night,  Petrovna,     What  is  the  hour?" 

"You  had  best  come  early,"  said  Petrovna.  "  We  shall 
meet  at  nine.  Let  there  be  no  mistake  about  the  time  or 
place,  and  do  not  allow  tlie  appoititmcnt  to  elude  your 
memor}'.  You  may  as  Avell  know  that  your  ever}'  move- 
ment is  watched  and  reported  to  me  hourlj'.  You  were 
seen  to  enter  the  house  on  the  Quai  d'Orsai  not  yet  two 
hours  ago." 

"Yes,"  said  Evan,  "I  saw  and  I  was  seen.  That  fellow 
Percheron,  Avho  made  a  living  as  a  pill-vonder  and  street 
conjurer  in  Lyons  among  otlier  places  a  year  or  two  ago. 
The  man  who  arranged  the  papers  for  the  ballot  this  night 
five  weeks." 


253 


Petrovna  neither  started .  nor  clianged  in  the  slightest 
degree  in  color,  nor  gave  any  slightest  indication  of  an 
understanding  of  the  inner  meaning  of  this  speech. 

"  That,"  he  said  with  a  faint  nod,  "  is  the  man.  He  told 
me  you  had  recognized  him.  You,"  he  added,  turning  to 
Lebon,  "  may  think  things  over  if  you  will.  That  is  3^our 
own  affair.  You  have  till  nine  o'clock.  After  that  the 
orders  with  respect  to  you  cannot  be  rescinded." 

With  this  he  resumed  his  hat  and  walked  tranquilly 
away. 

"  What  was  there,"  asked  Lebon,  laying  his  hand  upon 
a  heavy  iron  bar  which  stood  beside  his  furnace  door — 
"what  was  there  to  prevent  my  beating  out  his  wicked 
life  with  this  ?  Ah,  well,  it  is  best  as  it  is.  It  would  have 
grieved  the  old  mother  to  see  me  go  to  the  guillotine. 
She  will  grieve  as  it  is,  but  the  duke  will  look  after  her, 
and  a  man  can  only  die  once.  If  I  were  you,  my  comrade, 
I  should  pluck  up  a  heart.  You  are  young,  but  it  is  better 
to  die  than  to  have  blood  on  your  hands.  I  have  never  got 
rid  of  that  waiter  in  the  Rue  Timbale.  I  may  meet  him 
in  hell,  for  any  thing  I  know,  though  I  trust  for  m}^  own 
sake  that  he  was  a  good  man." 

He  took  up  the  tool  he  had  abandoned,  and,  having  made 
a  few  aimless  strokes  with  it,  threw  it  down  again. 

"  What  is  tlie  good  of  that  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  have  done 
my  last  bit  of  work.  Comrade,  pluck  up  a  heart  and  send 
these  wolves  to  the  devil." 

"I  shall  do  no  work  at  their  bidding,"  said  Evan,  "j^ou 
may  be  sure  of  that." 

Lebon  stretched  out  liis  rough  hand,  and  Evan  grasped  it. 

"  In  that  case,"  he  said,  "  we  are  going  on  the  same 
journey.  I  shall  have  a  glass  of  wine  before  I  go.  It  is 
rare  good  stuff  he  sends  us.  It  comes  from  his  own  cellars, 
and  I  might  be  drunk  from  New  Year's  Day  to  Christmas. 
Share  a  glass,  comrade." 


254 


Evan  would  not  refuse  his  whim.  Tliey  left  the  work- 
sliop  and  entered  the  house  together.  The  old  woman 
stood  at  the  window  in  the  cleanest  and  crispest  of  caps 
and  aprons,  her  brown  withered  fingers  busily  plying  her 
knitting-needles  while  she  looked  out  upon  the  street. 

"  'Tis  thee,  my  son,"  she  said,  turning  and  smiling  as  the 
burly  fellow  entered. 

"  C'est  bien  moi,  ma  mere,"  he  responded.  "Here  is  our 
friend  Evan  Rhj's,  the  protected  of  our  protector." 

Mme.  Lebon  received  the  young  man  graciousl}',  and 
if  her  bright  old  ej^es  took  note  of  his  solemnity,  she  for- 
bore to  remark  upon  it. 

"  Our  friend,"  said  the  brass-founder,  "  is  going  upon  a 
journey,  and  has  come  to  say  '  Good-by.'  We  shall 
break  a  bottle,  my  mother,  and  wish  to  each  other  good- 
luck." 

"Eh,  bien!"  said  the  old  lad3^  "And  a  bottle  of  the 
best,  with  all  my  heart.  My  good  Edouard  allows  it,  and 
he  would  not  have  us  stint  our  friends." 

She  went  nodding  and  smiling  to  the  cupboard,  and  took 
from  it  a  cob  webbed  bottle,  which  she  dusted  gingerl}"  and 
insisted  on  uncorking  with  her  own  hands. 

"A  bottle  of  good  wine,"  she  said,  "must  be  handled 
like  a  baby.  If  I  were  a  duchess,  I  would  never  have  a 
man  for  a  butler.  You  are  great  clumsy  creatures,  and 
are  always  in  danger  of  breaking  things." 

Slie  filled  two  glasses  with  a  humorously  affected  care, 
and  put  one  into  either  hand.  Lebon  touched  Evan's 
glass  with  his  own. 

"Bon  voyage,  camarade." 

They  drank  together,  and  then  the  great  fellow  put  his 
arm  about  the  old  woman's  waist. 

"  Thou  also,"  he  said,  holding  the  glass  to  her  lips. 

She  made  at  first  a  pretence  of  refusing,  but  finall}'^  she 
sipped  at  the  wine  as  a  bird  might  have  done,  and   then 


255 


made  a  movement  to  retire  from  her  son's  embrace.  He 
held  her  still,  however,  and,  having  emptied  his  glass,  set  it 
upon  the  table  and  took  the  old  woman  in  both  arms.  She 
looked  up  at  him  in  some  amazement,  as  if  this  sort  of 
caress  were  a  rarit3\ 

"  Eh,  ma  mere,"  he  said,  his  big  voice  shaking  a  little. 

"  Eh,  mon  fils,"  she  answered,  in  a  tender  mockery,  and 
he  stooped  and  kissed  her  twice  or  thrice  upon  the  fore- 
head, straining  her  little  figure  hard  in  both  arms.  Evan, 
standing  there,  saw  that  his  knotted  and  warty  hands  were 
shaking.  *'Eh,"  said  Mme.  Lebon,  half  laugliing  and  half 
crying,  "  what  is  it  ?  Thou  art  more  my  lad  to-day  than 
thou  hast  been  many  a  year." 

"Thou  art  happy?"  said  Lebon,  looking  down  at 
her. 

"  Right  happy,  my  son,"  she  answered,  nestling  her 
withered  old  face  against  his  blouse  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  escaped  from  him  laughing,  and  gave  him  a  smart  tap 
upon  the  cheek.  "  'Tis  long,"  she  said,  "  since  thou  wert  a 
baby." 

Lebon  took  up  the  bottle  and  his  glass. 

"  Good-by,  my  mother.     Come  along,  friend  Rhys." 

He  led  the  way  back  to  the  workshop  and  there  refilled 
Evan's  glass  and  his  own. 

"  Thou  art  unlucky,  lad,"  he  said,  "  to  have  come  to  an 
end  so  soon.  But  courage.  Maybe  the  next  world  will 
make  amends  for  this." 

Tliey  clinked  their  glasses,  and  drank  togethei'. 

"My  God,"  said  Evan,  "you're  a  brave  fellow  ! " 

"  Not  I,"  said  Lebon  quite  simply.  "  I've  been  a  crying 
coward  all  my  life,  but  it  has  always  been  for  her,  you 
understand.  As  for  raj^self," — he  struck  the  framework 
of  tlie  mould  before  him  with  a  heavy  hand, — "this  won't 
hurt.  I  sha'n't  have  time  to  feel  it.  The  old  mother  will 
tliink  it  was  an  accident,  and  will  have  masses  said  for  me. 


256 


She  is  a  good  woman,  and  has  never  neglected  her  services 
for  a  day." 

He  began  to  bustle  about,  stirring  his  furnace  fire,  and 
inspecting  his  melting-pot.  Then  he  took  the  bottle,  and 
poured  what  remained  of  its  contents  into  the  sand  of  the 
mould,  and  busied  himself  in  mixing  it  until  the  whole 
mass  was  slightly  moistened. 

"  That  should  serve  my  turn,"  he  said. 

He  turned  over  the  ponderous  lid,  and  bolted  it  down. 

"  Good-by,  lad." 

Evan  took  the  proffered  hand  in  both  his  own  and  wrung 
it  in  silence. 

"  Go  now,"  said  Lebon.  "  My  affair  will  be  settled  in 
five  minutes.     The  metal  is  ready." 

"VYIien  Evan  had  left  him,  Lebon  made  quiet  preparation 
for  the  end.  He  arranged  the  duct  by  which  the  metal 
was  to  flow  into  the  mould,  and  swung  out  from  the  fur- 
nace the  big  crucible  of  molten  brass.  He  seized  this 
firmly  in  a  huge  pair  of  nippers,  and  poured  with  a  steady 
hand.  The  shining,  blinding  stream  ran  along  the  duct, 
and  there  came  a  crash  in  which,  for  a  mere  instant  of 
time,  the  whole  Avorld  seemed  to  reel. 

Poor  Lebon  had  been  a  true  pi'ophet.  He  had  had  no 
time  to  feel. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Evan  walked  very  quietly  along  the  Avenue  de  la 
Grande  Armee,  and  nobody  encountering  him  would  have 
been  inclined  to  think  that  he  had  any  thing  very  special 
on  his  mind.  He  looked  a  little  moodj^  and  a  little  tired, 
perhaps,  but  that  was  all.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  at 
a  crisis  so  tremendous  that  its  contemplation  in  another 
man's  career  would  have  been  appalling,  and  for  the  time 
being  he  was  barely  able  to  take  an  interest  in  it.  When 
the  body  has  endured  as  much  as  is  endurable,  the  sufferer 
swoons.  When  a  mental  agony  has  grown  unbearable,  the 
mind  refuses  to  regard  it  further.  Nature  will  endure  so 
much,  and  no  more.  If  she  is  pressed  beyond  her  powers, 
she  slips  aside  and  finds  refuge  in  insensibility  or  indif- 
ference. 

He  was  walking  about  the  streets  of  a  great  capital 
with  the  signs  of  the  reign  of  law  and  order  everywhere. 
He  might  have  purchased  a  temporary  safety  by  an  appeal 
to  authority,  but  he  had  no  impulse  in  that  direction. 
There  was  no  permanent  refuge  for  him  anywhere,  and  he 
saw  no  relief  from  his  present  certainty  of  death  in  the 
prospect  of  a  life  of  fears. 

There  was  only  one  person  in  the  world  to  whom  he 
cared  to  say  good-by.  He  bent  his  steps  toward  Quahar's 
lodgings,  but,  when  he  reached  the  door,  he  was  reluctant 
to  enter.  He  feared  that  something  in  his  manner  would 
betray  him,  or  that  he  might  break  down  under  the  stress 
of  his  farewells.  He  lingered  for  a  time,  and  then  walked 
away  decisively. 

It  was  a  strange  thing,  he  could  not  but  tliink, — though 
it  interested  him  less  than  the  relation  of  such  a  case  in  a 

17  257 


258 


story-book, — tliat  he  sliould  be  walking  about,  alive  and 
well,  free  of  restraint,  and  yet  marked  for  death,  and  as 
much  a  prisoner  as  if  he  were  immured  among  stone  walls. 

Of  only  one  thing  he  was  quite  certain  :  He  would  not 
be  snuffed  out  and  thrown  aside  by  that  congregation  of 
callous  traitors  without  struggle  and  without  protest,  and 
he  would  not  die  unavenged. 

lie  went  to  his  own  rooms,  and  sat  there  for  an  hour  or 
two,  hardly  feeling  the  time  so  long.  He  thought  of  his 
childhood  in  the  English  western  countr}-,  and  his  earl}' 
bo^^hood  in  Australia.  The  clock  of  the  neighboring 
church  chimed  and  chimed,  and  at  last  he  heard  it  with  a 
conscious  ear,  and  arose  to  put  into  execution  the  purpose 
M'hichhad,  from  the  first  moment  when  he  had  been  certain 
of  his  own  doom,  formed  itself  within  his  mind. 

There  lay  in  a  locked  drawer  in  his  bedroom  a  hollow, 
uncharged  shell,  which  had  long  since  been  handed  to  him 
by  Petrovna  as  a  sample  of  the  weapons  of  destruction  he 
was  expected  to  make  active.  He  unlocked  the  drawer, 
and  found  the  harmless  thing  still  lying  in  the  small  black 
handbag  of  American  leather  in  which  it  had  been  carried 
to  him.  He  took  it  from  its  resting-place,  and  charged  it 
with  a  compound  so  delicate  and  deadl^^  that  merely  to 
lian.dle  it  was  to  risk  life.  Early  in  his  manipulation  of 
the  material  supplied  to  him,  and  in  the  pursuit  of  an 
ideal  fulfilment  of  M.  Cadoudal's  formula,  he  had  discovered 
that  the  preparation  in  this  especial  stage  was  so  suscepti- 
ble that  the  faintest  shock  would  awake  it  to  action.  He 
had  experimented  with  infinitesimal  quantities  only,  but  he 
could  guess  what  the  effect  of  a  bomb  charged  with  this 
irritable  devil  of  a  ])owder  would  be.  Of  necessity  he 
handled  it  with  the  utmost  care,  but  he  filled  it  to  its 
capacity,  closed  the  orifice  through  which  the  j^owder  had 
been  poured,  and,  when  the  dangerous  engine  was  full}' 
prepared,  packed  it  lightly  yet  firmly  in  cotton-wool,  stuff- 


259 


ing  it  inside  the  bag  in  such  a  manner  that  an  explosive 
shock  was  scarcely  possible. 

He  had  still  some  hours  before  him,  and  a  restlessness 
which  began  to  creep  upon  his  nerves  forbade  him  to 
remain  indoors.  He  locked  up  the  bag  and  wandered  into 
the  street  again,  and  his  feet  led  him  back  to  Quahar's 
door.  Tiie  original  objection  to  entering  there  was  to  the 
full  as  strong  as  ever  ;  but  he  made  light  of  it,  passed  the 
concierge  with  a  nod,  and  mounted  the  stone  stairs.  There 
at  the  very  door  of  the  chambers  he  fell  musing,  and  so 
stood,  staring  nervously  before  him,  for  five  minutes  or  so, 
until  at  last,  without  being  conscious  of  any  new  impulse 
in  his  own  mind,  he  knocked. 

Effie  herself  answered  to  his  summons,  and  bade  him 
enter.  Her  father  and  the  little  French  maid  who  minis- 
tered to  their  wants  were  both  awa}'',  she  explained,  and 
she  was  quite  alone.  There  was  a  radiant  something  in 
her  manner  the  young  man  had  never  before  noticed. 
She  had  been  thinking  of  him,  and  hoping  for  him,  and 
even  yearning  over  him  a  little,  and  "ow  at  his  coming 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  shy.  She  led  the  way 
into  the  sitting-room,  and,  taking  up  a  piece  of  work  she 
had  laid  down,  pointed  hira  to  a  chair.  What  with  the 
unwonted  delicate  clear  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  the  softer 
glance  of  her  eye,  she  would  have  looked  charming  to  the 
eyes  of  any  man.  The  lover  condemned  to  death  had 
never  seen  a  woman  so  lovely,  so  beautiful. 

In  spite  of  her  invitation  to  be  seated  he  kept  his  feet. 
He  had  come  to  say  good-by,  and  now  that  seemed  the 
last  and  the  greatest  of  follies.  He  was  unable  to  find  a 
word,  and  could  only  stand  there,  awkward  and  mournful, 
looking  at  her  with  an  almost  vacant  gaze. 

"You  are  not  well,  Evan,"  she  said,  rising  and  stand- 
ing before  him.  "  What  is  it  ?  You  are  in  trouble  I  in 
distress  !     Has  any  thing  happened  ?     Tell  me." 


260 


"Notliingof  any  moment,"  lie  vespomlecl,  cleaving  his 
harsh  throat  with  difficulty.  "I  was  passing,  and  I 
wanted  to  call." 

"You   are   not "     She  left   the  question   unfinished, 

but  she  stood  before  him  with  clas])ed  hands,  and  tried  to 
read  his  gloomy  face.  As  she  looked  he  smiled,  with  a 
w^onderful,  strange  sweetness. 

"God  bless  you  !  "  he  half  whispered.  "  I  don't  know 
Avhy  I  said  that,"  he  went  on,  in  an  inward,  strange-sound- 
ing voice.  "I  was  never  bred  to  believe  in  that  sort  of 
thing,  but  it  felt  like  a  ])rayer,  and  I  said  it  without  know- 
ing it.  I  hope  you'll  be  happy.  It's  a  queer  sort  of  world, 
as  I've  found  it,  but  some  people  can  be  happy  in  it.  I 
hope  you  may  be  one  of  them." 

"You  are  very  strange  to-da}-,  Evan,"  she  answered, 
"lam  sure  I  can  see  some  very  serious  trouble  iii  your 
face.  Sit  down  and  tell  me  what  it  is.  Even  if  I  can't 
help,  I  can  sympathize,  and  it  eases  one  to  tell  one's  trou- 
bles to  a  friend." 

"No,"  said  Evan,  "I  have  no  trouble  that  won't  be 
cured  in  an  hour  or  two.  There  is  nothing  of  lasting 
moment.  I  wanted  to  see  you  so  much  to-day  that  I 
couldn't  resist  the  impulse  to  come  here.  But  now  I  have 
nothing  to  do,  and  I  am  very  dull  company,  and  I  will  say 
good-b}-." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  surrendered  her  own, 
searching  his  face  with  a  glance  of  kindly  perjdexity  and 
wonder.  The  look  was  a  little  more  than  friendly.  There 
was  a  tenderness  in  it  which  he  had  never  seen  before. 
He  met  her  eyes  with  the  same  strange  smile,  and  it 
seemed  to  cut  her  to  the  heart. 

"Oh,  Evan!"  she  besought  him,  "tell  me  what  your 
trouble  is,  and  let  me  try  to  help  3'^ou." 

"No,"  he  said,  still  smiling.  "I  can't  tell  you  any 
thing,  dearest.    The  trouble,  such  as  it  is,  will  soon  be  over." 


261 


"Evan,"  she  cried,  with  pule  face  and  dilating  eyes, 
*'  you  can't  mean  tliat " 

"You  shall  know  every  thing  to-morrow,"  he  answered. 

"1  shall  see  you  to-morrow  ?  "  she  asked  him,  holding 
his  hand  in  both  her  own. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  There  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  see  me  to-morrow  if  you  wish  it." 

Half  the  fear  went  out  of  her  face,  and  she  drew  a 
breath  of  relief. 

"Evan,"  she  said,  "  you  are  ill,  and  aged  and  altered. 
My  father  speaks  often  of  your  associates,  and  is  alwaj-s 
certain  that  they  will  lead  you  into  mischief — into  ruin. 
Don't  let  them  do  that.  You  are  so  young  ;  you  have  so 
much  before  you  !  You  might  be  so  happ}'^  and  useful 
and  honored.     Don't  throw  it  all  away  for  a  chimera." 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  and  she  made  no  pretence  of  coy- 
ness at  the  repetition  of  the  word,  "  I  shall  remember 
all  you  have  said.  I  shall  think  of  it.  It  will  not  leave 
my  mind.  Let  that  content  you  now,  and  let  me  say 
good-by." 

They  had  held  each  other  by  the  hand  all  this  time,  and 
now,  bending  over  her,  he  put  his  arm  about  her  neck  and 
drew  her  to  him.  He  kissed  her  solemnly  and  dispassion- 
ately, and  she  submitted  to  the  caress. 

"  You  promise  me  that  ?  "  she  asked.  "  You  promise  to 
remember  ?  " 

"  Alvvaj's  to  the  very  end,"  he  answered.  "I  have  mis- 
managed my  life  somehow,  or  it  has  been  mismanaged  for 
me.     I  must  make  a  better  use  of  what  is  left.     Good-by." 

He  kissed  her  again  and  left  her,  smiling  througli  brave 
tears  at  him  as  he  turned  to  look  at  her  for  the  last  time 
at  the  door-way.  His  heart,  dull  as  it  was  with  aching, 
smote  him  for  the  deception  his  words  conveyed. 

"  I  could  not  help  it,"  lie  told  himself.  "  When  she  hears 
what  has  happened,  she  may  understand.     At  least,  she  will 


263 


be  at  peace  for  a  few  hours,  and  in  a  few  hours  I  shall  be 
at  peace  forever." 

It  was  as  if  a  whole  ocean  of  despair  throbbed  through 
the  caverns  of  liis  soul,  with  Farewell,  farewell,  fare- 
well !  in  tlie  voice  of  its  awful  surge. 

At  the  very  sounding  of  the  hour  of  nine  he  presented 
himself  at  Cadoudal's  door,  and  was  admitted.  He  was 
ushered  as  usual  to  the  library,  and  there  he  found  the 
master  of  tlie  house,  together  with  Petrovna,  Dusaulx, 
Ducos,  Pecheron,  and  Frost. 

"  We  have  awaited  your  coming  with  anxiety,"  said 
Cadoudal.  "  W^  have  learned  from  our  excellent  friend 
Petrovna  that  3'ou  had  promised  to  be  here." 

Tliey  were  all  standing  in  various  attitudes  about  the 
table.  Petrovna  and  Cadoudal  were  cordial  in  their  looks, 
but  Percheron,  Dusauix,  and  Ducos  looked  angry  and 
sullen,  and  Frost  was  purely  indifferent.  Evan  set  down 
the  black  bag  he  carried  on  a  table  at  the  end  of  the  room, 
and  kept  his  place  near  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Cadoudal,  "  I  promised  to 
be  here." 

" I  am  rejoiced,"  said  Cadoudal,  "that  you  have  kept 
your  promise.  There  is  no  disposition  on  my  side  toward 
hostility,  but  the  commands  laid  upon  you  have  been 
disregarded,  and  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  under- 
stand tlie  position." 

"  My  voice,"  said  Dusaulx,  "  is  for  the  penalty."  He 
spoke  so  rarely  that  his  raven  croak  sounded  as  a  surprise. 

"  And  mine,"  said  Ducos. 

"  And  mine,"  said  Percheron. 

"  Comrades,"  urged  Cadoudal,  in  his  most  persuasive 
tones,  "  the  question  has  already  been  debated,  and  it  lias 
been  thought  advisable  by  the  greater  number  of  us  to  offer 
our  youthful  companion  an  opportunity  of  returning  to  his 
allecfiance." 


268 


"Just  so,"  cried  Ducos  with  an  oatli.  "And  wliat  are 
we  all  doing,  I  should  like  to  know,  if  we  are  to  be  gov- 
erned by  majorities  ?  To  the  devil  with  majorities  !  Let 
us  have  liberty.     Liberty  and  death  !  " 

"My  good  Ducos,"  Cadoudal  besouglit  him,  "leave 
something  to  the  balance  of  opinion  in  our  commonwealth. 
Let  us  at  least  understand  what  our  comrade  is  prepared 
to  do." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Dusaulx.  "  Let  him  give  an  account 
of  himself." 

"Yes,"  said  Frost.  "Let  him  give  an  account  of 
himself." 

"  I  have  something  here,"  Evan  said,  panting  in  his  speech 
at  first,  and  looking  from  one  to  another  with  a  strange 
glance — "  I  have  something  here  which  maybe  of  service." 

He  opened  the  bag  with  extreme  nicety,  drew  away  the 
cotton-wool  from  over  the  bomb,  and  witli  that  instrument 
in  his  right  hand  approached  the  table.  Whatever  else  his 
face  spoke, — and  it  was  full  of  strange  matter, — there  was 
no  fear  in  it. 

"  This,  messieurs "  he  began  ;  but   Ducos  broke  in, 

objecting  to  the  form  of  address.  There  were  no  messieurs 
here,  no,  nor  citizens.  Comrades  was  the  word,  and  the 
only  word.  "  Silence,  animal  !  "  cried  Evan  passionately. 
"  Listen,  all  of  you  !  " 

Ducos  made  a  movement  as  if  to  pass  round  the  table, 
but  Petrovna  waved  him  back. 

"  Wait  a  little.     Wait  a  little." 

"  I  hold  here,"  said  Evan,  "a  shell  made  after  our  excel- 
lent Cadoudal's  formula.  It  is  fully  charged."  Cadoudal 
backed  with  a  blanched  face,  and  Frost  uttered  an  inarticu- 
late moan.  "  Some  of  you,  it  would  seem,  ai"e  men  of 
peace,"  continued  Evan,  with  a  wild  badinage.  "  If  a  man 
moves  hand  or  foot  I  let  this  fall.  I  think  I  can  command 
safety  until  I  have  said  my  say," 


264 


Petrovna  stood  like  a  vock,  hut  the  rest  cowered  and 
crouclied,  starnig  at  the  speaker  and  his  weapon,  witli  dis- 
torted faces. 

"  I  Avas  warned  hy  you  this  afternoon,"  said  Evan. 
"  Tell  me  by  what  authority  the  task  I  have  failed  to  per- 
form was  imposed  upon  me  ?  " 

"  The  choice  fell  upon  you  hy  ballot,"  Petrovna  said. 

"  By  ballot  !  B}'  a  ballot  in  which  every  paper  bore  one 
name,  my  own." 

At  this  each  man  started,  and  for  a  mere  instant  of  time 
even  the  swift  death  which  lay  poised  in  the  accuser's  hand 
was  half  forgotten. 

"Traitors  !  Liars  and  murderers  all  ! "  cried  Evan  madly. 
He  flung  into  the  air  the  two  crimson  strips  of  paper,  and 
bj^  liazard  thej'^  fell  upon  the  table  face  upward,  so  that  all 
could  see  and  read.  "  It  is  in  this  nest  of  infamy  Ave  hatch 
our  schemes  of  reformation  for  the  world.  That  wretch," — 
pointing  with  his  left  hand  to  Percheron,  who  shrank 
against  the  wall  as  if  he  would  fain  shrink  through  it, — 
"that  wretch  was  brought  here  to  falsify  the  ballot!  He 
did  his  work  well,  and  he  shall  be  paid  for  it. 

"  I  came  here  under  sentence  of  death,  and  I  know  full 
well  that  there  is  no  escape  for  me.  I  ask  for  no  promise, 
and  I  would  not  accept  it  if  it  were  sworn  and  signed  by 
every  one  of  j'ou." 

"You  will  not  be  troubled  to  accept  it,"  Petrovna  broke 
in,  unshaken  by  the  threat  which  had  quelled  the  others. 
"You  will  be  dealt  with  only  on  the  ground  on  which  we 
have  decided.  You  will  obey  the  instructions  given,  or 
you  will  go  to  3'our  doom." 

"  I  shall  not  go  alone,"  Evan  answered,  "  nor  shall  I 
delay  my  going  long."  A  wail  of  terror  rose  from  Frost 
and  Percheron,  but  the  rest  at  least  were  men.  "You  saw 
me  slipping  away  from  you,  you  saw  me  with  eyes  open- 
ing little  by  little  to  the  monstrous  nature  of  your  creed, 


265 


you  saw  me  week  by  week  a  less  willing  tool,  and  so  I  was 
to  be  put  away  by  treason.  You  found  the  same  change 
in  Lebon,  and  he  too  must  go.  Well,  you  have  passed 
sentence  upon  me,  and  I  accept  my  fate.  But  you  share  it 
with  me,  comrades  at  the  last,  at  least." 

"  Despatch,  then  !  "  cried  Cadoudal. 

"  Let  him  have  his  life  !"  screamed  Frost,  recoveringthe 
power  of  speech.  "  Give  him  a  safeguard  !  Let  him  go 
away  !  " 

"He  shall  have  no  safeguard!"  said  Petrovna.  "I 
claim  obedience  or  I  ask  for  punishment." 

"  Punishment  !  "  cried  Evan  in  a  wild  voice,  raising  the 
bomb  high  in  his  right  hand.  Not  a  man  moved  except 
Ducos,  and  he,  with  his  bloodshot  eyes  blazing,  and  with 
trembling  hands,  was  searcliiiig  for  something  underneath 
his  blouse.  His  hand  found  and  clutched  the  butt  of  a 
revolver,  and  he  levelled  the  weapon  full  at  Evan's  breast. 
"  Fool  !  "  said  the  young  man.  "  Fire,  and  bring  down 
your  own  doom." 

Tlie  shot  rang  out,  and  Evan,  falling  forward,  struck  the 
bomb  upon  the  table  before  him.  There  was  one  hideous 
crash.  The  house  seemed  to  rock,  and  the  room  was 
wrecked  from  end  to  end.  A  sluggish,  evil-smelling  smoke 
crawled  through  orifices  in  walls  and  ceiling,  and  the  six 
men  lay  in  eternal  quiet,  to  dream  no  more  mad  dreams,  to 
plan  no  more  horrors    for  the  relief  of  a  suffering  world. 

They  are  gone  each  to  his  own  place,  Avhere,  perchance, 
some  root  of  wisdom  grows.  But  of  this  no  man  knows 
anv  thinsr. 


THE    END 


By  DAVID   CHKISTIE   MURRAY. 


Mr.  Christie  Mnirray  is  a  kindly  satirist  who  evidently  delights  in  the  analysis 
of  character,  and  who  deals  shrewdly  but  gently  with  the  frailties  of  our  nature. 
.  .  .  The  pages  are  perpetually  brightened  by  quaintly  humorous  touches. 
Often  in  describing  some  character  or  something  that  is  commonplace  enough, 
a  droll  fancy  seems  to  strike  the  author,  and  forthwith  he  gives  us  the  benefit  ot 
it.  Consequently  there  is  a  spontaneity  in  his  pen  which  is  extremely  fascinat- 
ing. .  .  .  We  can  only  say  generally  that  Mr.  Murray's  plot  is  sufficiently 
original  and  worked  up  with  enough  of  skill  to  satisfy  any  but  the  most  exacting 
readers.  We  found  ourselves  getting  duly  excited  before  the  denouement. 
.  .  .  Readers  of  Mr.  Christie  Murray's  novels  will  know  that  he  belongs  to 
the  school  of  Mr.Charles  Reade.  And  it  is  no  small  praise  to  say  that  he  has  caught 
a  fair  share  of  the  vigor  and  rapidity  of  that  romancer.  His  characters,  too,  be- 
long to  the  same  category  as  those  that  figure  in  Mr.  Reade's  stories.  They  are 
drawn  with  a  sufficient  resemblance  to  nature  to  take  a  complete  appearance  of 
vitality  so  long  as  we  are  in  the  whirl  of  the  plot,  which  is  also  what  we  feel 
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